The flight back to New York wasn't in First Class. I was back in Economy, squeezed between a guy who snored and a woman with three carry-ons. But I didn't care.
When I landed, I went straight to my sister's apartment. Ronnie was on the couch, as usual.
"Back already?" he grunted. "Did you bring me anything from London?"
"Actually," I said, dropping my bag, "I brought back a job offer."
I called Amy and told her everything. We spent the night celebrating with cheap pizza and expensive dreams. A few weeks later, I walked into the new gallery Julian Marx was opening in SoHo. I wasn't the coffee girl. I wasn't the "Assistant to the Assistant."
I was the Associate Curator.
As I stood in the middle of the white-walled room, looking at the first piece we were going to hang, my phone buzzed. It was a photo of a First Class ticket to New York.
"Coming to see the gallery. Save me a seat. — Will."
I smiled, feeling the sun hit my face through the gallery windows. I had started with a lie, but I had ended with something real. No more faking it. I had finally upgraded my life for real.
Tbh, the view from the top is way better when you actually earned the climb.