“You haven’t texted him back, have you?” She gave me a sly grin and wheeled the ergonomic chair over to my desk, plucking my phone off the charger and typing in my password. She was already into my contacts by the time I got over there. “You don’t even have his number saved? That is cold.” She handed the phone to me. “Well, you’re lucky. ’Cause if I’d found his contact I would have texted him for you.”

“Trust me, I know you would have,” I muttered and clicked on my iMessages, finding his number and tapping a few keys before putting my phone down again. “You win. I texted him, agreeing to go to the Mark Ryden show with him.”

She squealed again. “He’s the one. I can feel it.”

I had mentioned to Tom how much I was dying to see the Mark Ryden show at the Paul Kasmin Gallery. That when I had gone, one Saturday afternoon with Huda, the place had been so packed that we could barely get a glimpse of any of the paintings before being shoved aside by a mob of tourists, iPhones lit up, so many voices making the space shrill with noise.

I had said it in passing, when he asked me who my favorite contemporary artists were. I’d made some joke about how I was betraying my gender by admiring Ryden instead of a female artist. He’d acknowledged the comment, but we’d moved on to another topic quickly, and I hadn’t even remembered the conversation until that invitation for the private viewing appeared on my desk.

We were meeting for a drink beforehand and I found myself fussing around with my hair, my clothes, in the hours between work and our 8:00 p.m. meetup.

I stood in front of the three-way mirror in my bedroom, trying on and discarding dresses, jeans, skirts, boots, heels, trendy sneakers. I felt like I was in seventh grade, getting ready for a dance, before I hit puberty, before I became somewhat feared and popular.

I finally chose an upcycled, black vegan leather skirt from our last collection, ankle boots and a black-and-white silk vintage YSL blouse with pin dots. I made Quinn take pictures of me, tasteful and artful with the mirror reflecting dozens of versions of me, my red lips striking against my pale skin and with my espresso-brown hair falling in waves past my shoulders. Secure with herself. I opened Instagram to post the pictures.

Huda was making us boost our personal Instagram presences. She preferred traditional influencer pictures—of people at brunch, poolside, on West Village streets. I was a little more opaque with mine, more landscape shots, cool architecture, not as much of myself. I knew she would be happy with this post. She always said, “Vera, you exude such confidence. You should post more images of yourself on socials. If nothing else, it’ll help the brand.”