Plus One

Chapter Two

Sophie set her cell phone down and stared at the kitchen table for a good two minutes. She knew she was having one of those big life moments, two roads diverged in a wood and all that. She could make all the pro and con lists she wanted, but she knew, in the end, she had to go with her gut. And reality. The choice was between job security and going for her dream. The artist's dilemma. She wasn't the first that would have to face a decision like this and she certainly wouldn't be the last.

All she had was a couple hundred bucks in her bank account and a roach-infested two-bedroom Culver City apartment she could barely afford. She and Troy had done the best they could with it: colorful fabrics were pinned to the wall, the worse-for-wear furniture was covered with blankets and throw pillows, and the stains in the carpet hidden with hooked rugs. A few of her photographs hung in matted frames: the closest she'd ever come to having them in a gallery was her own living room.

Something about working the gallery event the week before had cast her life into harsh perspective. Sophie was tired of being surrounded by beautiful and successful people who saw her as nothing more than a servant. She wanted to show them her portfolio and say See? I'm an artist, not a waiter!

But Ian Tate had been different. He'd seen her, the real her, and he hadn't stopped looking. It had felt good to be noticed, to be treated with a little bit of dignity. It didn't matter how many times Sophie reminded herself that being a cater waiter was just a day-job—it was starting to feel like her life. Like this was all there would ever be.

Troy walked through the front door, looking debonair in a fedora and button-down shirt and vest.

"Happy birthday, darling!" he said, carrying a bouquet of flowers and a Mylar balloon with a teddy bear on it.

She stood, kissing his cheek as she took the flowers and balloon. "You're the best."

"I know."

"And you look hot," she said.

He grinned, impish. "I feel hot." He took a closer look at her. "Honey, what's wrong?"

Sophie burst into tears. "I'm sorry," she said. "I don't know why I'm..."

Troy didn't even bother with hugs or words of comfort. He went straight to the liquor cabinet, pulled out a bottle of tequila, and poured her a shot.

"Take your medicine," he said.

It was only eleven in the morning, but somewhere in the world it had to be five, right? Sophie threw back her head and poured the Milagro down her throat.

Troy sat across from her. "Okay. Now talk to me. It's your birthday. You shouldn't be crying on your birthday, even if you are officially old." He leaned forward, patting her hand. "Kidding."

"I just got a job offer. My friend Lisa, the English teacher at Parkview High?" He nodded. "She told me that there's a position open for a full-time photography teacher. It's mine if I want it."

"That's great!" Troy took in her grimace. "Not great?"

"It would be the first time in my life that I have a steady income and good health insurance. The money is great—I mean, comparatively. But...full-time. I just have this feeling like if I take this job, that's it for me. I'll never have my work in MOMA or LACMA or any museum of any size or importance anywhere in the world."

"So don't take the job."

"I know, but the thing is, I don't know if I'll ever make it. And opportunities like this are rare. I don't want to spend the next decade being a cater waiter and doing actors' headshots. No offense."