OVERLOOKED TO IRRESISTIBLE

"You're late." Charlotte Reed didn't look up from her desk as Aria rushed into the Meridian Gallery, coffee in one hand, portfolio in the other. Her new boss had silver hair cut into a sharp bob and the kind of presence that made people stand straighter without her saying a word. "I'm so sorry, the subway—" "The subway is always a problem. That's why successful people account for it." Charlotte finally glanced up, her eyes assessing Aria over designer reading glasses. "Close the door." Aria obeyed, her heart hammering. First day and she was already screwing up. "Your resume is impressive," Charlotte said, tapping a manicured nail on the desk. "California Institute of the Arts. Three years at the Morrison Gallery in San Francisco. Excellent references." She paused. "But this isn't California. The New York art world doesn't care about your potential. It cares about results." "I understand." "Do you?" Charlotte stood, walking to the window overlooking SoHo. "I'm giving you the Brooklyn Emerging Artists exhibition. Three weeks from today. You'll curate it, promote it, and make sure we have buyers in attendance who actually open their wallets." Three weeks. Aria's stomach dropped. That was barely enough time to organize a show properly. "Can I ask why you're giving me such an important project right away?" Charlotte smiled, but it wasn't warm. "Because if you fail, I'll know immediately that I hired the wrong person. If you succeed, you'll have earned your place here. Either way, we both get clarity quickly." "I won't let you down." "See that you don't. Now go. Your desk is the one by the storage room. Not glamorous, but you're not here for glamour." Aria escaped to her closet-sized workspace, setting down her coffee with shaking hands. Three weeks. She could do this. She had to. By six PM, her eyes burned from staring at spreadsheets and artist portfolios. The gallery had emptied out, leaving just the hum of the air conditioning and the distant sounds of SoHo traffic. Aria grabbed her bag and stepped outside, breathing in the September air. Six years. That's how long she'd been gone from New York. Walking toward the subway, Aria passed a coffee shop that made her stop cold. Café Luca. The sign was new, but the building was the same. This was where she and Ethan used to spend entire afternoons, splitting one hot chocolate because she could never afford her own and he never made her feel bad about it. She could picture him perfectly at seventeen. Messy dark hair, easy smile, always knowing exactly what to say to make her laugh. Back then, she thought being near him was enough. She'd been wrong about a lot of things at seventeen. "Aria?" She turned to find Lauren Kim, an old classmate from junior high, staring at her with wide eyes. "Oh my God, it is you!" Lauren rushed over, pulling her into a hug. "When did you get back?" "Last week. I'm working at Meridian Gallery now." "That's amazing!" Lauren looked exactly the same except for the expensive highlights and designer purse. "We should get coffee and catch up. Are you free now?" Twenty minutes later, they were crammed into a corner table at a Starbucks, and Aria remembered why she'd lost touch with most of her New York friends. Lauren talked non-stop about people Aria barely remembered and social events she'd never been invited to anyway. "So, have you seen Ethan yet?" Lauren asked, and Aria's coffee suddenly tasted like acid. "No. Why would I?" Lauren's eyes gleamed with the particular joy people get from delivering gossip. "He's still with Sienna. Can you believe it? After all these years. I always thought they'd break up after college, but nope. They're still together." Aria forced her face into something resembling casual interest. "Good for them." "Everyone's talking about it actually. They're finally getting engaged soon. Like, really soon. Sienna's been dropping hints all over Instagram." Lauren scrolled through her phone. "Look, here's a post from last week. See the ring emoji?" Aria didn't want to look, but she did anyway. Sienna looked exactly like she had in high school, just more polished. Blonde hair, perfect smile, caption reading "Exciting things ahead with my favorite person." "It's going to be the wedding of the year," Lauren continued. "The Blackwells and the Hartleys? That's like New York royalty marrying New York royalty. I'm hoping I get invited, but we'll see." "I'm sure it'll be lovely," Aria said, proud of how steady her voice sounded. They talked for another fifteen minutes before Aria excused herself, claiming exhaustion from the move. Lauren made vague promises about getting together soon that neither of them meant. On the subway home, Aria stared at her reflection in the dark window. What did she expect? That Ethan would have spent the last six years pining for his childhood best friend who ran away to California? That he'd somehow realized the girl from Brooklyn was actually the love of his life? She'd left New York to escape this exact feeling. And here she was, right back in it. Her new apartment in Brooklyn was a studio that cost twice what she'd paid for a one-bedroom in San Francisco, but at least it was hers. Aria dumped her bag on the futon that doubled as her couch and stared at the stack of moving boxes she hadn't unpacked yet. The one labeled "High School Stuff" sat on top, mocking her. Don't do it, she told herself. She opened it anyway. The yearbook was right on top, like it had been waiting. Aria flipped to the junior class photos and there he was. Ethan Blackwell, with that same smile that used to make her stomach flip. She slammed the book shut and shoved it back in the box, pushing the whole thing into her tiny closet. Six years of therapy, personal growth, and building a life in California, and she was right back to being seventeen-year-old Aria who loved a boy who barely saw her. Her phone buzzed with an email notification. The subject line read: "Marcus Gallery Opening Tomorrow Night You're Invited." Charlotte must have put her on some industry list. Gallery openings were good for networking, for seeing what other curators were doing, for making connections. Professional reasons only. Aria opened her closet and stared at her limited wardrobe. She'd need to make a good impression. The art world in New York was small, and reputations were built or destroyed at events exactly like this. She pulled out a simple black dress that looked expensive even though it wasn't. Professional. Polished. The kind of outfit that said she belonged in these spaces now, that she wasn't the broke kid from Brooklyn anymore. That night, Aria lay in bed scrolling through i********:, telling herself she wouldn't look for Ethan's profile. She looked anyway. His account was public. The most recent post was from two hours ago: a photo of Central Park at sunset, the skyline glowing gold and pink. The caption read "Big things coming." The comments were full of people asking if he was finally proposing. Congratulations in advance. Sienna is so lucky. The perfect couple. Aria's finger hovered over the Follow button. She could send a friendly message, something casual. Hey, heard you're still in New York. We should catch up. No. That was pathetic. She closed i********: and set her phone on the nightstand, staring at the ceiling of her new apartment. Tomorrow she'd go to the gallery opening, make professional connections, focus on her career. She was twenty-four now, not seventeen. She'd moved on. She'd moved on. That night, Aria dreamed of Central Park at sunset and a boy who never chose her, and when she woke up, her pillow was wet with tears she didn't remember crying. The next evening, Aria stood outside the Marcus Gallery in her black dress, watching people filter inside. Through the windows, she could see champagne glasses catching the light, expensive clothes, the easy confidence of people who'd always belonged in spaces like this. You belong here too, she told herself. You earned this. She took a breath and walked inside. The gallery was packed with Manhattan's art elite, their voices creating a sophisticated hum. Aria grabbed a champagne glass from a passing waiter and started mentally cataloging the exhibition. Contemporary pieces, mostly abstract, prices that made her eyes water. She was examining a particularly interesting mixed-media piece when someone behind her said, "Aria? Aria Castellano?" The voice hit her like a physical thing, six years of distance collapsing in an instant. She turned slowly, and there was Ethan Blackwell. Older. More polished. Same eyes. "Oh my God," he said, his face breaking into a smile that still, after everything, made her stupid heart skip. "I can't believe it's really you."