The Text God: Text and You Shall Receive ... (An Accidentally in Love Story Book 2)

by Whitney Dineen

  Walking into his office now feels like I’m stepping into the lion’s den right before he rips my head off. “Phillip,” I say, as he slowly gets up from his ridiculously expensive Eames desk chair. I could buy two of Jen’s lilies for what he paid for that one chair.

  The senior partner eyes me up and down like he’s trying to get a read on what my decision is. “Come on in, Gabe!” He forces a smile onto his face and feigns a jocularity I’m sure he doesn’t feel.

  I take a seat in front of him and cut to the chase. “For the most part, I’ve really enjoyed my years here, Phillip. You’ve given me the opportunity of a lifetime and I’m truly grateful for that.”

  “Good, good, we’re glad we have you back on board.” Shuffling a stack of papers on his desk, he says, “I have a meeting scheduled with Covington for one o’clock this afternoon. Once we cross all the T’s and dot the I’s we should be able to wrap up this Bulgari situation and move on to the next thing.”

  “I’m not going to be at that meeting, Phillip,” I tell him. “I’ve thought long and hard about the ultimatum you gave me, and I’ve decided my conscience isn’t okay with what we’re going to do to Mr. Bulgari.”

  “Jesus Christ, Gabe. It’s part of the job! You’re not even breaking the law.”

  “I know, Phillip. But the thing is, the law exists to protect people. I feel like we’re using it to hurt someone.”

  He cuts me off, “We’re protecting our client!”

  “Who wouldn’t suffer the least by doing the right thing here. In fact, if he didn’t have to pay our legal fees, he could have done right by Bulgari ten times over.”

  Phillip shakes his head as his lips curl in on themselves. “If people like Covington didn’t pay for legal services, we wouldn’t have a job.”

  “I get that, truly. I’m just telling you that I can no longer do my job and have any respect for myself.”

  Pushing a button on his intercom, Phillip says, “Bethanne, I need you to call security and have them come to my office.” Then he looks at me and says, “We’ll just sit here and wait for them.”

  Five minutes of intensely awkward silence later, two burly men show up and Phillip tells them, “Mr. Daly here is leaving our employment. Walk him back to his office and give him fifteen minutes to pack up. Make sure he only takes personal items.”

  As I stand to leave, I offer Phillip my hand, which he does not take. It’s a bit embarrassing walking through the halls of the only workplace I’ve known in my adult life with an armed escort. But the truth is, I’m officially persona non grata, and this is the drill.

  After distributing the gifts from Alexis among a few of the staff members (polo tickets to Edward, wine and cashews to a couple of paralegals who helped me out from time-to-time, and the bonsai tree to Jane), I box up my personal items and leave.

  I’m now standing on the sidewalk in front of the building, a free man with the world at my feet. But first, I have one last loose end to tie up, and I have to act fast, praying that I won’t get caught.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Jen

  I haven’t had an all-night painting session since I accidentally ate that special brownie in art school. All I have to say to that is you need to warn people when you mess with their sweets. Also, it’s a good thing I was on a diet or I could have been in real trouble. I normally have no willpower when it comes to fudgy treats.

  I finally crawled into bed at seven this morning and I just woke up. Checking the nightstand clock, I discover that it’s one in the afternoon.

  I hurry to look through my messages, both hoping and fearing that I’ll find one from Alexis. She didn’t get in touch over the weekend so I’m wondering if she finally got the memo that she and Byrne are no longer together. A plethora of negative emotions surges through me and it’s all I can do not to throw my phone against the wall. Did Byrne, or did he not, break up with that woman?

  Her message is the third, right after one from Seraphina telling me to make sure to wear something peach colored today, and one from Zay asking if we can do our weekly roundup tonight instead of Wednesday. I text both of my friends back, alerting them that I have nothing peach, and I’m scheduled to work all week, so we’ll have to postpone our wrap-up until Sunday.

  Then I read Alexis’s text for the fourth time.

  Jennifer,

  I can come by today at three if that works for you. Please let me know ASAP as I have a very busy schedule.

  Alexis

  I type back:

  I’ll be here at three. I’m right around the corner from Central Park West on 103rd St. First red brick brownstone on the right-hand side of the street. Apartment 4A.

  I wish I were excited about potentially selling another painting, but I’m not. There is no set of circumstances under which I can envision wanting to meet Byrne’s ex, especially if she isn’t really his ex. Rummaging through my closet, I look for something as close to peach as I can find. I need all the good juju from the stars that I can get if I’m going to get through this meeting. I settle on a neon orange T-shirt with a long purple gypsy skirt. Then I tie a rainbow scarf around my waist. Looking into the mirror I decide I look like a real free spirit, which truthfully is a good look for an artist.

  After getting dressed and spending WAY too long on my hair and makeup—um hello, I’m meeting Byrne’s girlfriend—I make myself some avocado toast and chat with Frank.

  “I can’t figure out why this Alexis would want to buy a painting for Byrne unless they’re still together.”

  Then I answer in the slow baritone voice that I think Frank would have, “Maybe she’s buying it for him as a parting gift.”

  “Don’t be silly, Frank. Humans don’t buy expensive paintings for each other when they’re breaking up.”

  “How would I know, Jen? I’m a fish.”

  “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings, Frank. You’re a very smart fish and you’ve been a good friend.”

  After finishing my toast and conversation, I hurry to tidy up my apartment. There is no way that I look like a huge success in my current set-up, but the nice thing about being an artist is that people generally don’t have high expectations of us.

  My mentor, Peony Parks, used to wear a diaper on her head when she went to the grocery store. She said that it kept people from talking to her. And while that’s true, it almost got her arrested once when she forgot her diaper and opened up a box on aisle seven and stole one. All I’m trying to say is that no one expects an artist to be normal.

  I almost hit the ceiling when my buzzer rings. “She’s here …” I whisper those words just like that creepy little girl in Poltergeist did when she said, “They’re here …”

  I buzz her up before touching up my lipstick, flip my head up and down several times to achieve maximum hair body, and then I hurry to open the door before she has a chance to knock. I hear her before I see her. She’s mumbling, “For the love of God, who lives in a walk-up?” Umm … someone poor? Or someone who wants to stay fit? Lots of people, thank you very much.

  Then I see her.

  Even though I saw a brief headshot of Alexis on Byrne’s phone, I wouldn’t have recognized her. Today, there’s nothing carefree or happy about her—she was smiling on Byrne’s phone. She’s wearing a severe looking business suit with her hair pinned up into a tight bun. Her makeup is expertly applied, and her heels look like they could double as weapons. She’s scarily pretty.

  “Hi there, I’m Jen,” I say as soon as she reaches the landing.

  “Alexis.” She looks me up and down, then her face falls a little before she pushes past me.

  No handshake or nice to meet you or anything? As much as I’m doubting my gut instincts lately, I know for a fact that she is not my people. After walking into my apartment, she says, “When I looked you up, I noticed you don’t have anything on exhibit at any of the big galleries. Or the small ones either.”

  Thanks, Queen Obvious. “Yu
p,” I tell her. “That’s true.”

  She stares at me for an uncomfortably long moment before saying, “I’m curious how my boyfriend came across your work.” (Extra emphasis on the word boyfriend.)

  My face flushes with shame, even though I don’t have anything to be ashamed of, then I say, “We actually met at one of the hotels he represents. We got to chatting and I showed him my work.”

  “What were you doing at one of his hotels?” she asks with an I-know-what-you-did look.

  Does she? Like did Byrne tell her we kissed? Did she come here to murder me or something? Maybe she’s going to pull a super-sharp metal chopstick out of her tight bun and ninja-star throw it at my chest, hitting me directly in the heart. “Working at the front desk.”

  “Oh, so I guess your art doesn’t pay the bills, then,” Alexis says dismissively.

  Ah, so not a metal chopstick, but she still took aim at my heart. Direct hit. She sunk my battleship. “I like to work outside the studio. It helps me find inspiration.”

  “Really? As a front desk clerk?” she asks, wrinkling up her nose. “It takes all kinds, I suppose. Anyway, where are your paintings?”

  “Over here in my living room.” So as to play up my avant-garde artiness and successful aura, I tell her, “I recently sold most of my paintings at my latest show, but I have these seven.” I walk over to the corner and Vanna White my hand toward the canvases propped up against the wall. “I also have these three next to them which are all in the early stages. I’m not opposed to taking a commission, if the price is right.” I’ve got a whole game show thing going on here.

  “Are all of your pictures of vaginas?” she asks while checking out an orchid.

  “That’s an orchid,” I tell her.

  “That”—she points to the center of the flower—”is a vagina.”

  “That’s the thing about art,” I tell her. “It’s subjective. Everyone can see something different.” Then, because I’m cagey and don’t want her to suspect I’m not a hot-selling commodity, I ask, “I forget which picture your boyfriend bought.”

  Rolling her eyes in apparent disgust, and obvious disbelief, Alexis tells me, “It was a giant hot pink lily.”

  She sounds so disgusted, I feel obliged to tell her, “Oh, yes. That was actually a vagina.” I suddenly decide I don’t want this woman’s business. She’s so negative and derogatory about my pictures, I don’t want her to have one.

  “It was certainly a surprise when I saw it hanging in his apartment.”

  “Such a surprise that you wanted to buy him another, huh?”

  She glares at me like she’s got telekinetic powers and she’s trying to set me on fire with her thoughts. “We’ve been together for so long, it gets increasingly harder to find ways to surprise him. I wanted to buy him a special gift for our engagement.”

  “I thought you wanted to buy it for his birthday,” I say, as sharp pricks attack my nervous system. Engagement?

  “We’re getting engaged on his birthday.” A smile spreads across her lips and she looks me directly in the eye with a so-you-better-back-off-because-he’s-mine face.

  “Oh, how nice.” I can’t help the feeling of desolation that overcomes me. Obviously they’re still together if they’re getting engaged. What in the heck was Byrne doing kissing me last night, then? And why is he letting his family think that he and Alexis broke up? If she weren’t being so awful, I’d be tempted to go all sisters before misters and tell her he kissed me. But she’s a troll so I’m not saying a word.

  She points to the picture of my orchid and asks, “How much is that one?”

  It’s less than a quarter of the size of the one Byrne bought, so it’s eight hundred dollars. But I tell her, “That one is thirty-two hundred.”

  “You can’t be serious.” The look on her face is so appalled you’d think I told her I painted it with the blood of an endangered species.

  “I understand completely if it’s out of your budget. Not everyone can afford to collect art.” I’m done even trying to be polite. How dare this horrible woman insult me?

  She sighs, letting out a groan of irritation. “I’ll take it. But I’d like you to write something on the back for me.”

  I don’t want her to have my orchid, but I’m not exactly in a position to turn down thirty-two hundred additional dollars. I pick up one of my charcoal pencils and ask, “What would you like me to say?”

  “Just write to Gabriel Oliver Daly, you are marrying the right woman. Then sign your name.”

  Gabriel Oliver Daly?!

  His initials spell God?

  My God?

  My God is really Byrne? Of course he is! He was the one who came to the hotel to deliver the gift card. He was at the bar when I was supposed to meet God. Mary and Joe never called their son anything other than Byrne. If I’d known his name was really Gabe I might have put this together myself. Thoughts are crashing into my brain at such a speed I can barely gather my bearings.

  Alexis asks, “May I use your bathroom while you wrap that up?” She waves at my painting with disgust.

  I nod my head vaguely and point her in the right direction without saying anything. It’s not like she can get lost in my tiny apartment.

  Byrne is God. That’s why I was going to meet him at a pub in Hell’s Kitchen. And I thought he didn’t show up. But he was there, and I didn’t realize it. I’m both thrilled and horrified by the news that he’s the one who helped me.

  Without thinking this through too clearly, because, let’s face it, I just found out the most shocking news ever, I pick up the pencil and write:

  Gabe, You deserve better than her. JF

  Do I mean me? I don’t want to be with him if he kissed me while he was planning to marry another woman, but I don’t think he should marry her, either. She’s awful. But maybe he is too. After all, he did confess to me that he’s done some really unethical stuff as a lawyer. Maybe it’s not such a stretch to think he’d keep Alexis around while seeing what he could get from me at the same time. A wave of nausea comes over me and I let out a long, shaky sigh, then quickly wrap up the painting.

  When Alexis comes out of the bathroom, she pulls her phone out of her purse and demands, “What’s your Venmo address?”

  I give it to her and wait while she sends me the money.

  When she walks to the door without picking up her painting, I ask, “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

  She turns around forcefully. “You’ll need to deliver that to Gabe’s on Saturday night. I’m sure you have the address from his last purchase.”

  “I don’t actually,” I tell her, my voice sounding foreign to my own ears. Small, scared, heartbroken.

  She opens her purse and writes something on a slip of paper and then hands it to me. “Here you go. Eight o’clock Saturday night. Don’t be late.” And with that, she walks out of my apartment.

  I don’t have the foggiest idea how to begin to process everything I just found out. So, in the absence of a solid plan, I fall back on something that’s worked very well for me in the past. I sit down and have a big, fat cry.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Gabe

  “I’m open!” Terrell shouts.

  I fire the ball to him down center court and he takes it all the way for an easy layup, making the score 36-12. Eli, who is on the opposite team from me tonight, drops to his knees and yells, “WHYYY! Why do you have to play like LeBron when you’re not on my team???”

  I chuckle at his histrionics while Terrell tells him, “Keep it down, man, or your wife is going to yell at us, and while you might be used to that, she scares the crap out of the rest of us.”

  Eli hops back onto his feet, then gives us both the middle finger while simultaneously glancing at the door to make sure his wife isn’t there. “Time out!”

  He and the other four guys on his team jog over to their bench and have a quick huddle while the rest of our team goes to the side to have
some water. Terrell and I stay on the court and shoot free throws. “See how nice the single life is?” he asks, catching my rebound. “You’re in the groove man! Dunking and passing like a champ. Stay single, my friend. It’s the secret to happiness.”

  Jen pops into my mind and I realize the last thing I want to do is stay single. The thought of her is what’s got me leaping through the air with ease tonight. He tosses the ball to me and I take a shot.

  “Nothing but net,” Terrell says with a grin. “You need to come out with me this weekend so I can properly introduce you to something your old man ass hasn’t seen since you were a teenager—single women.”

  Shaking my head, I say, “I don’t think so.” I grab the ball and pass it back to him.

  “You don’t … you don’t think so?” he sputters, pretending to be in total shock. “Dude, we live on a tiny island crammed up against over three million women, of which at least one million of them are single. At least a hundred thousand are damn fine.”

  “It hasn’t even been two weeks. I’m not ready for a relationship.”

  “Relationship? That’s not the goal,” he says, dribbling the ball. “That would put an end to the good life which you’ve never experienced in your sorry existence.”

  “I’ve had the good life. I dated a lot of girls before I met Alexis,” I say, feeling defensive for some unknown reason.

  “Yeah, but that was being single when you were a broke student,” he says, taking a shot that bounces off the rim. “Being single when you’ve got cash rolling in is a whole different experience. So, Saturday night—you, me, the HaDa Club?”

  “Thanks, but I’ll take a pass. I’ve got bigger things on my mind,” I tell him.