Chapter Text
She paints the succulents she saw in the Arizona desert. Little green and pink spiny cacti and purple gems of plants in terra-cotta pots. Sometimes they’re broken, soil spilling out across the canvas and little insects crawling up through the roots. These are the ones that sell — the beauty in the stark decay. Or they would be, someday. It almost feels like a metaphor for the days she spends lugging her portfolio up and down Spring Street, going from gallery to gallery with the same tune.
“Hello! I’m Rey, local street rat painter begging for you to carry one of my stupid paintings. Would you like a business card? I paint them myself on cheap pieces of card I salvage from the recycling bin at work. I only have ten of them so please consider carefully.”
But, you know, more professional sounding.
Most of the gallery girls are WASPy twenty-somethings with black-rimmed glasses perched on noses just a little too perfect to be genetic. They might be short or tall but they’re all beautiful and poised, more likely to grace the pages of magazines than answer phones and take out the trash at the end of a long day. They have a practiced, tight-lipped smile that Rey is used to.
“Thank you, but our space is limited and our curator is selective. You should try [insert gallery name], they might be looking for something in your style.”
Today she had traversed four city blocks. The worn soles of her boots gliding around tourists and locals. There had been six firm no’s, three “have you tried [insert gallery name]”, and zero yeses. Her iPhone buzzed in her pocket. An email from Rose about a masquerade party art showcase in the East Village that night — Could be fun! She’d written. Rey didn’t have the heart to tell her she already paid the $300 fee to have just one of her paintings on display among the “Amateur Talent” section. It was the entirety of her meagre supplies fund plus a couple weeks’ worth of tips from the bar. Meals had been dismal while she paid herself back. She tapped out a quick reply and copied Finn and Poe, telling them to meet her at the bar at seven and could Rose please handle the masks.
Rey grabbed a rental bike and headed further downtown to the Resistance for her shift. It was still early, and Maz would be finishing the books in her cramped office above the bar.
It was a small space, mainly standing room and a dozen stools, but it was usually busy. Craft beer enthusiasts of all sorts crowded into the dark corners, sipping sours and IPAs and porters.
Rey fished her keys out of her pocket and slipped inside, locking the door behind her. A few cases of the new stout from Rebel Brew blocked the Employees Only door that led upstairs. She pushed them a few inches and climbed nimbly to the office.
Maz was older than old, she was fond of saying, and wore the thickest glasses this side of the Hudson. Her tiny head was hunched over a ledger and calculator, a dusty desktop computer with ten-year-old accounting software her only light beyond the skylight.
“Did that shipment get here yet?” She didn’t look up from her numbers, clacking the keys with her long fingernails.
“Six cases. Chewie will be pleased,” Rey replied. She hung up her coat and slid her portfolio between the desk and the wall. It rattled Maz’s framed photo of herself, younger (but still older than old), standing between Han Solo and Leia Organa in the early days of Galaxy Wars fan conventions. It was faded in its brass frame, a layer of dust across the top. But the smiling actors and beaming Maz were one of Rey’s favorite photos in the office. Maz was a bit of a collector — trinkets and photos of glamorous parties from years past. Sometimes Rey would lose track of time making up stories in her head about the different portrait occupants. Which families lived in cozy cabins, sipping tea and arguing over puzzle pieces in front of the fire.
“Is the old bear in yet?” Maz asked, nudging her glasses further down her nose.
“Not sure, came right upstairs.”
He was likely getting the kegs in order in the basement, making note of stock and ordering. Chewie ran a tight ship and liked things neat, despite his unruly hair and beard.
“Tell him to order more of the—”
“Raspberry sour? Last night he said he was making it part of the permanent lineup. Keeps selling out before the weekend.”
“And remind him that—”
“Rebel Brew’s owner will be here tomorrow morning with their autumn beers.”
Maz chuckled and looked up at her. “If you were better at math I’d just give the place to you. Lord knows you know everything else well enough.”
Rey smiled at her and bounded down the stairs. The cases of beer were gone and the trapdoor to the basement was open. She slid down the ladder and gave Chewie a fist bump, as was their custom.
They opened at noon and she wanted to make sure she knew the new rotation before the day crowd showed up. It was usually people on their lunch breaks looking for a quiet escape, the occasional traveler who stumbled in hoping for food but happy to stay for a beer, and sometimes musicians from the venue across the street in need of a drink after unloading.
After making her rounds she hopped back up the ladder and updated the chalkboard menu to include the new stout. Working on the chalkboard was the best part of her shift — she tried out new fonts and shading on the letters. Sometimes she’d add in the Resistance logo.
Everything was clean from the night before so there wasn’t much to do in the remaining minutes. She poured a 10oz of the raspberry sour and tied her hair back in a bun. When the clock hit noon, she unlocked the door and waited for the day to begin.
***
Rose showed up at 6pm sharp, fresh from work. They’d been roommates in college, and at first glance an art history major and an electrical engineer were unlikely to have much in common, but Rose excelled at everything she did, from graphic design to the little amigurumi crochet figures she sold on Etsy. They’d bonded over late night junk food and sci-fi movies from the 70s and 80s. Helped each other through college heartbreaks and early career stresses.
“Thai Thursday delivery for you,” Rose chirped, handing her bento box to Rey. Rose’s company had catered lunch every day, which meant Rey had a catered dinner most nights. “I figured you’d be hungry for some panang curry.”
“You’re a saint,” Rey said, tucking the container behind the counter. It had started to get busy, every seat claimed at the bar. She refilled three IPAs for a few suits and pushed glasses of water to everyone she could see. Rose liked the cloudy IPA from Bespin Brewery but they were out of that so Rey grabbed the closest substitute.
“I think my ginger lawyer is coming tonight,” Rose said over the bar. She was chest height to it, and Rey thought she misheard.
“The elusive guy you’ve been out with exactly twice in the last two months?” Someone spilled the dregs of their drink and Rey took the rag from her back pocket to mop it up, tossing the rag into the bin under the sink. She took a clean one from the stack to replace it then went back to Rose. “Mr. ‘I’m dreadfully busy but will send lonely text messages at 2am’ that ginger lawyer?”
Rose blushed as she sipped her beer. “Yes, that one. He said one of his biggest clients is sponsoring the masquerade and he’ll be in the neighborhood.”
“Who’s in the neighborhood?” Finn said, towering over Rose.
“Rosie’s ginger lawyer, the one she met in the elevator.” Rey pushed the new stout to Finn and cashed out the group of IPA suits, leaving her friends coveted stools at the bar.
“Oh, I’ve been dying to see him in the flesh and not in screenshots of text messages,” Finn pat Rose’s back and pushed up to the bar. “Will he know how to communicate without the safety of an electronic box?”
Rey laughed and checked the time. Paige was supposed to be here by now to take over. Snap carried a crate of empties downstairs. It had just been Rey and the barback since Chewie left for the day. They were always understaffed, but the rent for the space took most of the profits and Maz was reluctant to hire too many extra sets of hands.
“Where’s Poe?” Rose asked Finn.
“Still at work, poor thing. Said he’d meet us there when he’s done.” He checked his phone, no doubt replying to the very man based on his expression. If there were a honeymoon phase, Rey didn’t think those two had ever finished it.
“Excuse me,” someone said to Rey, “May I get a Red Squadron?”
“That’s $5,” she said, putting the glass in front of the man before she snatched the ten from his hands without looking. She gave him five ones as change, hoping for a decent tip.
It was louder than average, between her preferred British rock blasting from the speakers and the chatter, but Rey liked the dull buzz of noise from behind the bar. Seeing her friends laugh at something, draining their pints, trading barbs and leaning on each other. She cast her eyes throughout the bar, the makeshift wallpaper of people at tattoo parlors on the wall across from her obscured by dozens of people, including a particularly tall, dark haired man who stretched a long arm to deposit his empty beer and five one dollar bills in front of her. More than decent. His was face hidden behind the other patrons. Rey yelled her thanks, whether he could hear her or not. She slipped the bills into her tip jar as he left the bar, holding the door open for a frazzled Paige.
“Sorry! Sorry, sorry, sorry!” She pushed her way to the back and up to the office. Rey cleared more empties and settled a few checks until she came back. She was still panting a little, cheeks red.
“Train was delayed and then ran express to Union Square so I ran here,” Paige said as she grabbed a pint glass, filled it with water, and guzzled the entire thing. Then she tied her flannel around her waist and nudged Rey with her hip. “Get going, little artist!”
Rey grabbed her dinner and started shoveling mouthfuls of curry while she climbed the stairs to the office, spilling rice down her shirt in the process. Once she was safely inside she ate the rest without tasting it and changed quickly, rumbling down the stairs and out the door.
The showcase was three blocks away in a loft that was once a sewing factory. Old Singer sewing machines were welded together into an abstract sculpture that greeted you when you walked in. Even the staff wore masks, sleek and white with black details. Faces obscured.
Rose had chosen different masks for each of them, but they were all ringed with gold. Rey had changed out of her beer-stained jeans and t-shirt into a slightly cleaner pair of jeans and t-shirt she kept in Maz’s office for emergencies. The mask Rose selected for her was a watercolored sunset and tapered into a cat’s eye. Her secondhand leather jacket gave her some cool girl confidence but as she walked around the crowded space she couldn’t help but compare her work to the featured artists.
Rich abstracts and sensitive line art and beautiful glasswork so delicate it looked like starlight. Large scale portraits covered in graffiti. The kinds of things you’d see copied in boutique hotels in a few years.
And there, tucked into the back corner, was the “Amateur Talent” wall. Rey’s piece, an overturned echeveria, was level with her knees. Not the best placement, considering most art was viewed at eye level or above. But she hoped that the colors, moody purples for the plant itself and stark black and white for the planter, with rich, dark brown soil spilling out from the cracks, would draw the eye. She felt like she was one of the least amateur amateurs, at the very least.
A small plaque listed her name, Rey Johnson, and medium, acrylic on canvas. She couldn’t afford oils. There was a plastic business card holder beneath it. She slipped all ten of her makeshift business cards into it.
“You little sneak! You didn’t tell us you’d be showing!” Finn wrapped an arm around her shoulder and squeezed. “Proud of you, girl. It’s beautiful. Like all of your paintings.”
Rey blushed. Her friends always made a big deal of her work, and it was nice, yes, but it also reminded her that she wasn’t as successful as they were. Toiling away her days at the Resistance and running odd jobs in her off hours just to make the unfairly skewed rent she paid Rose and afford some canvas.
“So where is he? Your handsome suitor?” Rey asked Rose, who turned a particularly adorable shade of rose beneath her teal mask. She was wearing a new dress, and had put on some subtle, sheer lipstick. The ends of her long, dark hair in perfect barrel curls.
“He said he’d text when he got here.” Her phone was clutched in her hand, knuckles near white around the cherry blossom phone case. “And it’s still early. He works long hours and he’s coming from uptown.” Rose talked more when she was nervous, the opposite of Rey.
They made their way to the makeshift bar at the center of the space. The event was sponsored by the First Order, a popular chain of minimalist bars that had cropped up all over the city in the last five years. Their bar aesthetic was cold and clinical, but they pleased the Wall Street crowd and the hipster crowd with their vast selection. Each of their locations large enough to host hundreds, with dozens of brews on tap and their own distillery at the Williamsburg location to please the whiskey lovers. They hosted events like this one often, but this was the first that Rey had attended. Naturally the only drinks available were their house wines — sourced from vineyards in the Central Valley not Napa, which was overhyped — their Hefeweizen, cheekily named Vader, and a pale ale called the Krennic. Sparkling water and small batch sodas.
Their menacing logo hung from the ceiling above the bar. A looming reminder that the Resistance was small, but held strong. Rey ordered a Hefeweizen for herself and the pale ale for Finn and Rose. She hated to admit it, but the beer was decent. They’d never carry it at the Resistance, but it would do for tonight. And it was free. Well, minus her $300 display fee. She decided to eat her money’s worth of the appetizers that wound their way through the crowds, placed in neat circles and rows on silver platters. For every server who passed, she took three.
Soft indie rock played and the high ceilings of the loft took the conversations and laughter on flights above everyone’s heads. Rey pushed her mask onto her forehead, tucking a loose lock of hair behind her ears as she listened to Finn tell the latest story about his troops. He was a choreographer at an arts high school in the Bronx. It catered to troubled kids, and he had his own troubles as a kid that landed him in military school. He somehow never adapted to a soldier’s style, but his students still called him Sir and referred to their dance classes as marching. Finn Storm and his troopers, always preparing for one competition or another.
“They’re driving me nuts, these kids! I can’t get them to watch Save the Last Dance but they’ll show me hours and hours of Tik Tok dance videos.” He said, pulling out his phone with a shake of his head. “But actually they’re pretty good. Check out this one—”
“Is he showing off his students on Tik Tok again?” Poe said over his shoulder. “Sorry I’m late, they’ve got the trains running express.” He planted a kiss below Finn’s ear before shouldering his way to the bar.
They watched a few videos of Finn’s students until Rose nearly jumped out of her skin.
“He’s here,” she squeaked, craning her neck to look through the crowd. “I see him!”
“Shouldn’t be too hard to spot, eh?” Rey said, turning to survey the room over her beer. Sure enough, by the entrance was a well-dressed redhead with pale skin, his own eyes scanning the room from behind a grey mask. Those his features were obscured he seemed nervous, and that made Rey feel a little bit better, knowing that this stick-up-his-ass lawyer was excited to see Rose. As she nudged Rose in his direction Rey’s eyes snagged on the man next to him. He was tall and broad shouldered, with dark hair that waved to his collar and what looked like a strong nose. Before she could get a better look he disappeared into the crowd.
Before she could ask, Rose had squeezed her way into the throngs.
“Do you think we’ll meet him or will there be some sort of lawyer emergency that takes him away the second she says her friends are here?” Finn said, handing Rey another beer. She put her empty glass on one of the tall tables behind her. Finn had always been protective of Rose, ever since college. Rose had a little crush on him at first, but Finn only ever had eyes for Poe, who was briefly a TA in the psychology department before he quit his PhD to work for a nonprofit. And once he was no longer faculty he asked Finn out and they’d been together ever since.
But Rose had always fallen hard and fast for men who were always a little too quick to leave her in favor of someone less headstrong. Easier.
That was what Rey liked about Rose. She wasn’t easy, she was as complex as the work she did. There was no one sweeter, but there was no one more determined, either. She worked hard for the things and the people she loved. Her positivity was infectious. At least it was to Rey.
She slipped her mask back on and wandered back to the Amateur wall to see if anyone had taken one of her cards (no) when she felt someone step next to her. The tall man who came in with Rose’s lawyer. He studied the art beneath a dark mask, an almost scowl on his full mouth. She wasn’t sure why, but she started asking before she could stop herself.
“Do you like any of them?”
He turned his long face to hers for a fraction of a second before looking back at the wall of paintings and drawings. With a long, elegant finger, he pointed at her painting.
“I don’t mind that one,” he said, his voice deep and rough, but surprisingly soft. Like a wool sweater.
“What do you like about it?” Her heart was beating fast, why was it beating so fast? Why was she interrogating this stranger?
His lips quirked in the ghost of a smirk as he looked down at her. “Do I need a reason to like something beautiful?”
Was her heart even beating before because now it was actually beating — fast, a woodpecker drilling against her ribcage.
“So you like dirt and grubs then?” She sipped her beer before she could say anything else. “Broken things?”
“I like the idea of life thriving in dark circumstances, I suppose.” He said, shifting his feet. All of his clothes were black and fit impeccably well. Not that Rey noticed the cut of his pants or how his shirt spanned his clearly defined chest beneath his suit jacket. A loose tie around his throat. Nope, she was not ogling.
Maybe a little bit.
“Well, I’m sure the artist would be happy to know someone understood what she was trying to do,” she said, smiling up at him. His brow furrowed. “It’s— I’m the artist.” She added.
Before he could reply, Rose pulled on Rey’s arm. “There you are!”
Rey turned to her friend, who was practically beaming. “Sorry, just wanted to check on my poor plant picture back here with the other peasants.”
“Hux is talking to Finn and Poe, I think they’re getting along— look!” Rose pointed to the bar where their friends seemed to be engaged in some very awkward small talk between very long sips of beer. Eyes on the floor. Poe kept one hand on Finn’s back.
“I want you to meet him, come on,” Rose said, grabbing Rey by the elbow and steering her through the crowd.
“Wait, I was talking to someone, I just want to give him one of my cards first,” Rey said, weaving her way back. But the tall stranger was nowhere to be found. She grabbed the small stack of business cards from the lucite case and counted them. There were nine.