A/N: Hey, guys! So here's the first chapter of the rewritten story. The first one is not really that different from the version I posted before, but there were some name changes and role switching that transpired when I was rewriting the storyline. However, before we can get on with the story, there are some MAJOR IMPORTANT plot points that I want to point out:
* The title has been changed. From now on, Her Masterpiece will now be called "Within the Pages."
* The gang are in their mid-twenties. I had to make them that age for the timeline to make sense.
* Katy and Shawn never met and got married. And although Hart is Kermit's last name, I decided that it'll be Katy's maiden name instead. Trust me, y'all don't want to read about Maya strutting around New York with "Clutterbucket" as her last name. Katy's married name, however, will be Chamberlain (I just needed a good name last name, guys).
* Riley and Josh are not related. The original Matthews clan will be Riley's, thus Josh having a purely made up family. They WILL have the same last names still.
* Farkle and Isadora, as much as I hate to say this, will be minor characters. Since the story is Joshaya, we are going to be seeing more of Josh's friends than Maya's. And in case you guys wanted faces to match the characters, Josh's friends are those three NYU students he was with during the Tell-Tale-Tot episode. But don't fret, we'll still Maya's gang together, so that'll be something to look forward to.
* Riley and Maya aren't childhood friends. The gang all met in college, except for Zay, whom Maya is childhood friends with.
* Oh, and one last thing, prepare yourselves for the LONGEST, SLOWEST BURN EVER.
That's all I can remember right now, so I won't keep you long. I hope you guys will like this new storyline. I'm pretty excited about it. I'm halfway through writing the whole story, and I'm pretty pumped about the events that are happening ;)
Enjoy!
Chapter 1: A Couple of Bad Lucks
The velvet box felt heavy in his suit pocket. It had felt heavy ever since Josh Matthews bought it two days ago in a jewelry store that he knew his girlfriend loved.
Maybe it's because of the stone, he reckoned, then shook his head to dismiss the idea. No, it's my nerves. I'm losing my mind because I bought a ring!
Josh patted his suit pocket again to make sure the velvet box hadn't moved while his mind was off somewhere, imagining multiple scenarios of how his proposal would go. It was either his long-time girlfriend, Sophie Miller, says yes to him and they decide to marry in that instant or they decide to have a long engagement. Either way, it was stressing Josh out because he bore no hint as to how he's going to ask the biggest and most important question of his life.
As the lone child of Victor and Rochelle Matthews, both avid romance advocates, anyone who personally knew Josh would assume he'd at least inherit that trait from his parents. And, regrettably, much to his utter dismay, he didn't.
Sure, Josh could charm a woman with merely a line or two of sweet nothings, or through a simple yet thoughtful gesture, such as buying her flowers. His father had taught him that; Victor Matthews showed his son how to woo a woman back when Josh was still a freshman in high school and was getting to the stage of developing legitimate feelings for a girl. Despite all the lessons his father provided, Josh didn't feel that he possessed a single romantic bone in his body. Given that he was a human being who's capable of feeling something for another person, Josh just wasn't the expressive type. He liked the idea of being intimate with the right person and showing her that she matters most to him, but initiating a romantic moment wasn't his strongest suit.
Josh needed his father more than anything, especially now that he had been planning on popping the question to the woman he'd been with for five, long years. But alas, Josh figured it wasn't the perfect time to divulge his plans to his father. He feared that he would ring up a wedding planner long before the future bride-to-be could hear the words, "Will you marry me?"
Josh snapped back to the present time when a loud, thumping sound rang in his ears. He jerked in his seat, bumping his computer mouse and provoking his monitor screen to come back to life. Righting himself up in his chair, Josh looked up to determine what the source of the disruption was. His colleague and best friend, Andrew Williams, stood by the opening of his cubicle, his arms crossed over his chest. One of Andrew's eyebrows quirked up in a questioning manner.
"Wow, you're looking more miserable than you were this morning," Andrew commented with a chuckle. "Look at those bags under your eyes. Was Sophie's makeup collection finally too interesting for you that you just had to try them out on yourself?"
Josh sighed, his eyes reverting to his monitor screen. The article he wrote for People's Verse's newest issue, which was going to be released next month, looked like a victim of the alphabet stampede. Its first few paragraphs were still intact, but what followed them was a clump of letters strung together to form incoherent sentences. Josh highlighted the nonsense he'd managed to type subconsciously and pressed the 'Delete' button on his keyboard.
"What's up with you, man?" Andrew coaxed.
Josh leaned back in his office chair. "I just . . ." he trailed off, thinking of a way to express his current crisis in life. "I'm just so stressed out with everything is all. Between this article and that new thing with Sophie, I just . . . I could definitely use some room to breathe."
Andrew's eyebrows furrowed together at the mention of Sophie and the fretted tone of Josh's voice when he spoke her name. The last time Andrew saw the couple together, they were as happy as a fairytale couple riding off into the sunset on a rainbow unicorn.
"What's going on with Sophie?" Andrew asked. "Is everything okay?"
Josh snickered, which Andrew took as a good sign. Nevertheless, the latter still wanted to know more. That snicker might declare a different meaning behind it for all he knew.
Without giving his worried best friend a vocal answer, Josh swiveled in his office chair and reached inside his suit jacket, producing a black velvet box. He didn't open it, but he held it out for Andrew to inspect.
Andrew gasped. "Mr. Joshua Gabriel Matthews, what would Ms. Sophie Miller say?" he teased as he opened the velvet box to look at the glinting diamond ring. "After all these years, you actually have feelings for me?"
"Andrew!" Josh chided, though he couldn't help the smile forming on his lips.
Andrew handed the velvet box back to Josh. "I was beginning to worry that you don't plan on marrying this girl at all," he said with a mocking smirk. "This proposal is way overdue, my friend. You and Sophie have been together for what? Four—five years?"
Josh retrieved the velvet box from Andrew and stowed it in one of his drawers. "To tell you the truth, I don't know why I let it drag on for this long. By our three year mark, I knew Sophie is the one. I guess it was because . . ." He hesitated for a moment, then shook his head and continued. "I guess I was just too pansy to do it before—which I, obviously, am not anymore because I finally bought a ring."
Andrew unraveled his folded arms and propped his elbow on one of the low walls of Josh's small cubicle. He wasn't convinced that it was what Josh meant to say regarding his delayed marriage proposal, but considering their current time and place, it wasn't the perfect setting to get to the bottom of the subject. Perhaps Andrew would raise the subject again some other time. Preferably when he and Josh were off work and with cold beers in their hands.
"So," Andrew began. "When are you going to ask her? Better yet, how are you going to do it?"
That's when Josh's face contorted into something unpleasant.
Andrew regarded his best friend's abrupt change of facial expression and laughed. "You don't have a single clue at all, do you?" he taunted. "Is that what's eating you up?"
Before Josh could bite back a reply, their editor-in-chief, Mr. Steven Filomeno (Josh and Andrew refer to him as Filomeno behind his back), came walking by. He just concluded a meeting with Robert Lindquist, an executive from another magazine publishing company, and judging by the displeased expression on Filomeno's face, the two hours spent in private discussing deals and collaborations didn't run as desired.
"Matthews, Williams," Filomeno grunted when he observed the two men staring at him. "You better be working on your respective jobs. Seeing as I just dealt with a jackass, the last thing I ever want to witness going on around my building are two teenagers trapped in grown-up bodies discussing who's having sex with whom."
Andrew accidentally allowed a snort to escape his lips, which earned him a subtle kick on his calf from Josh. Thankfully, Filomeno didn't catch the interaction.
"I just dropped off a few printed rough drafts to Matthews, sir," Andrew told Filomeno, clearing his throat after to refrain himself from building up his little snort to a full-blown guffaw. "I figured he'd maybe want to offer some suggestions for alterations on the final publication." Then, in a low whisper to Josh, he said, "Wow, I should be like Busta Rhymes or something."
Josh gave Andrew's shin another kick.
"Shouldn't you be consulting Dodson with that?" Filomeno wondered.
Andrew squared his shoulders. "Yes, but I thought Matthews might want to see it as well considering that it is the page where his column will be placed in the final draft."
Filomeno studied his two employees, sensing that something other than dropping off rough drafts was taking place. In the end, he decided to let it go because he was already in a dire mood. He didn't want to make his situation worse by lashing out at Matthews and Williams.
"Very well," Filomeno spoke calmly, yet there's still a distinct vexation interlaced within his tone of voice. "I expect to see that page done by Friday. And I'm not talking about the rough draft, I want the final design—that means your article should be done before then, Matthews."
Josh nodded in agreement as Andrew stepped aside to allow more room for Filomeno to pass. Along with Andrew, Josh watched his editor-in-chief make his way over to his closed office space in an antagonizing fashion. The two best friends simultaneously flinched the second Filomeno's office door slammed closed.
"You heard the boss," Josh stated after he recuperated from the slight shock that resulted from Filomeno's door abuse. He sat down in his office chair and jiggled the computer mouse to bring his monitor back to life. "The final publication of my page needs to be done by Friday. I got three days, Andrew. It's crunch time."
Andrew laughed. "There's the Josh I know," he noted. "Why are you so afraid of Filomeno?"
"Because unlike you, I actually enjoy my job," Josh countered. "And also, I don't want to cross Filomeno's line at all. I've seen that man angry, Andrew. Trust me, I don't have a death wish."
"Hey! Who says I don't enjoy my job?" Andrew complained. "Who wouldn't like it when you've got Jasmine Wilcox to work with? There's a reason I never ask those other photographers to take pictures for my publishing designs."
Josh swiveled in his chair to look Andrew in the eyes. He opened his mouth to voice a retort, but he snapped it close when he spotted Filomeno's office door opening once again. Filomeno's raven-haired head popped out and his solemn eyes immediately captured Josh's gaze.
"Matthews," Filomeno called, "come see me at my office."
After Filomeno disappeared inside his office, Josh and Andrew exchanged worried glances. Usually, when Filomeno asked someone to come see him at his office, it was about something negative. No one enters his office feeling serene and collected; no one exits looking refreshed and relaxed either.
"I will pray for your soul, man," Andrew said, patting Josh on his back as the latter stepped out of his cubicle.
The short journey from his cubicle to Filomeno's office was torturous for Josh. He didn't know what it was that Filomeno wanted from him. Sure, he'd been submitting late articles recently, but Filomeno always brushed it off because he admires what Josh writes for the magazine. Maybe he was getting a raise or a promotion? Or that second column expansion he'd been requesting for the longest time?
Josh was several steps away from reaching Filomeno's office door when he heard a loud commotion behind him. He turned just in time to see Andrew bending down to help Jasmine Wilcox, their spunky and industrious colleague that his best friend liked. Josh shook his head in disbelief, knowing well enough that Andrew had orchestrated the interaction. Smiling at the sight of Jasmine scowling at Andrew, Josh grabbed Filomeno's doorknob and twisted it open.
Filomeno sat on his leather office chair when Josh walked in, his clasped hands resting on top of his organized mahogany desk. His eyes were steadfast and his facial expression unimpressed, seeming as though he'd been waiting for Josh's arrival for hours when it had only been less than two minutes.
"You wanted to see me?" Josh said upon closing the door. The smile he had on a few seconds ago was long gone.
Filomeno gestured at the chairs in front of his desk. "Take a seat, Matthews."
Josh didn't waste any time and hurried over to whichever of the two chairs his feet took him toward.
"I figured you'd be the best first candidate to learn about this new plan I have for the company since you are, in fact, part of my list," Filomeno began. He toyed with his silver pen before he decided to hook it on his suit's breast pocket.
"W-what list?" Josh stammered.
"People's Verse has been New York City's number one magazine for the last nine—almost ten—years we've been a magazine company. We're not falling off the ladder if that's what you're assuming, but I do believe that this company has been a bit . . . too generous, I suppose you could say. There's an abundance of employees being hired simply because we have a surplus amount of funds to pay them for their work. I really wouldn't lose anything if I cut back on some of those employees, don't I?"
Josh's eyes widened, the pieces of the puzzle fitting together in his mind.
Since you are, in fact, part of my list . . . If I cut back on some of those employees . . .
"You're getting rid of me?" Josh asked for clarification.
An impressed smirk flashed across Filomeno's features. "You've always been a fast thinker, Matthews."
"But, Filomeno—Mr. Filomeno—why am I on your list?" Josh queried. "Did I do something wrong?"
Filomeno shook his head. "You're an excellent writer, Matthews. But that's all that you are. I'm sorry if I'm coming out harsh, but your subjects are often times a bore to read. Sure, you've got a way with words, but the minute the readers manage to bust out of the spell you seem to put them under, they'll soon come to realize that your topics have become mediocre. Your subjects used to be appealing, even after your magic wears off, so what happened to that? There are millions of people living in New York City—a billion all over the world—and you somehow manage to choose the dullest people to talk about. That is the reason why I'm cutting you off."
Josh couldn't believe the words coming out of his boss's mouth. "But you always tell me that you admire what I write," he reminded.
"Did you ever notice how you never got that second column expansion you've been requesting for over a year now?" Filomeno retaliated.
Josh bit back his tongue, reminding himself to never curse the man in front of him. As much as he scorned him for cutting him off, he was still his boss. He was still the man who made his journalism career flourish in the first place.
"Mr. Filomeno, please give me another chance," Josh begged, refusing to give up his spot in the company. "I need this job and I need the money. If you'd like, I can get my article done by tomorrow. And if you don't like what I wrote, I'll find a new subject and still get it done by Friday."
Filomeno scrutinized his employee, seeing the genuine desperation pooling in his blue eyes. Three years ago, he hired Matthews because he saw potential in his work. The way he could put people under his spell by using his words was what drawn Filomeno to him. And he proved himself a promising employee—he even had Filomeno approve his request to expand his column, which was the first and last time it occurred. But over time, ever since the expansion, Matthews's work had lost its charm. His quality seemed to have degraded; lousy subjects and poor similes cluttered his work. It was as though the column expansion was Matthews's primary goal, and when he acquired it, he didn't bother trying any longer.
Nonetheless, Filomeno did see potential in Matthews in the first place. And as much as he denied it, he'd like to see that man from three years ago emerge again. So he came to a fateful decision he hoped he wouldn't regret.
"All right," Filomeno began, sighing. "Here's the deal—and I know I'm taking a big risk by doing this—but I'm going to give you another chance. Your last chance to prove yourself, Matthews. In five months time, People's Verse will be celebrating its tenth year anniversary. I'm handing you the opportunity to be the main writer of a five-page spread that I'm planning to put on the anniversary issue. If you don't find a subject worthy of the spread, and if whatever subject you've chosen to do doesn't impress me at all, you're out."
"Thank God—I mean, thank you!" Josh exhaled in relief. He was close to falling to his knees in gratitude.
Filomeno sat back down on his office chair. "I'm giving you five months, Matthews," he enunciated. "I'm pretty certain five months would be long enough for you to scout and write about something that'll guarantee you a secured position in my company."
Dismissed, Josh returned to his cubicle with a noticeable skip in his steps. He was the first to come out of Filomeno's office looking de-stressed and rejuvenated, disbelieving yet grateful that he managed to convince his editor-in-chief to give him a second chance. Josh thought that it meant Filomeno wasn't as willing to cut him off as he thought he was.
When Josh returned to his desk, he was ardent to finish his article. But before he could attend to his preempted task, a certain business card taped on his computer screen caught his attention. He didn't know where it came from, but he grabbed it and inspected the card. The name and the phone number didn't make sense to him, so he flipped the card over. As expected, there's a short note written in messy handwriting, indicating that it was Andrew who left him the card.
Give this person a call. She may just be the person that can help you with your proposal problem. And yes, I stole this calling card from Jasmine, but it was for your own benefit.
P.S. How did it go with Filomeno?
Disregarding the post-script, Josh took out his phone and dialed the number printed on the front side of the business card.
"I'm sorry, Ms. Hart, but there's nothing we can do. The artists were chosen in a 'first come, first serve' basis, and you arrived just a little too late," the art curator apologized.
Maya's shoulders slugged as her eyes scanned the spacious room, scouting for the slightest scrap of space available to display her artworks. When she spotted one by the far right corner, she straightened and nodded in that specific direction.
"There's one over there," Maya declared hastily. "I'm sure I can accommodate a piece or two in there. Look," she paused to raise up one of her artworks, "this one's painted on a small canvas. I can hang this up on the wall or I can perch it on an easel if you have a spare or something and—and—and I can just hold up the rest of them like this, and then this one can go like this—"
"Ms. Hart," the art curator interrupted. Pressured from coordinating the upcoming winter art exhibition, the last thing the art curator wanted was to kick out a desperate artist, who only wanted to showcase her artworks in the gallery. "I'm very sorry. Your pieces are all wonderfully magnificent—and we would have loved to show it to our guests—and I wish it was that easy to include you in, but we are very strict with our plan to only have three local artists showcased alongside the main artist."
Maya pursed her lips together, committed to fighting for a spot in the exhibition. The hours and effort she spent and put into painting her five masterpieces would not go to waste. Surely, there's still another way for her name to become part of the exhibition's line up.
"I'll pay you!" Maya suggested shortly after conjuring up the idea. Lowering the canvas she had in her hands so that it rested against her leg, Maya zipped her cross-body bag open and reached for her wallet. She took out every paper bill she had stowed inside and presented it to the art curator.
Maya didn't like bribing people, but at that moment, everything that could help her achieve the future she'd envisioned circa the first time she ever held a paintbrush was dancing on a tenuous line.
The art curator shook her head, apologetic as she placidly shoved the offered money aside. "Ms. Hart, I'm sorry. We really can't get you in."
"But—"
"Ms. Hart—"
"Is everything all right here?" one of the Atford Gallery's security guards came up to the two women, concern evident in his kind features. He stood tall with his hands resting on his hips.
The art curator nodded. "Yes," she responded curtly. "Everything is well. Our lovely visitor was just leaving."
"No, I am not," Maya huffed, keeping her stand. Hardheaded as she was, Maya wouldn't allow such a great opportunity to pass her. This could be the golden ticket she needed to excel in the art industry, considering how many well-known artists and their managers were coming to attend the winter art exhibition.
"Ms. Hart, please. I already told you that there's nothing we can do to help you. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go. The exhibition's tomorrow night and there are some things I still need to take care of," the art curator informed, her patience on the verge of termination. She could only deal with so much perseverance in such a short amount of time. "Guard, can you please escort our visitor here to the back door? The front doors are to remain closed until the exhibition tomorrow night."
The security guard nodded in accord.
"Thank you both for your cooperation. Again, Ms. Hart, I apologize."
With those uttered words, the art curator turned to leave.
The security guard averted his attention to Maya as he leaned down to pick up a handful of her artworks. However, he hadn't even successfully touched one yet when he felt a sudden stinging sensation in his hand. Drawing his hand back to his side, the security guard glanced up to find Maya scowling at him.
"Don't touch them," Maya warned, her tone of voice was firm and authoritative.
"I was just trying to lessen the load you have to carry, ma'am," the security guard defended.
"I carried all of them here by myself, I'm sure I can carry all of them out myself as well," Maya responded, picking up her pieces and sticking them in place under her arm. Taking note of how harsh she sounded to the security guard who's merely offering a helpful hand, she sighed and told him in a much softer tone, "I appreciate your thoughtful gesture, but I can manage."
The security guard nodded in understanding, watching wordlessly as Maya struggled with her artworks. He wanted nothing more than to extend a hand and grab a few pieces from her, but the woman had assured that she could do it by herself.
"Have a good rest of your day, ma'am," the security guard told Maya the moment they were out on the streets of New York City. He waited for a verbal response, but considering that her mood shifted negatively, he settled for the simplest and smallest nod Maya sent his way and went back inside the Atford Gallery.
Alone, Maya walked toward the closest bench and dropped her belongings on it. She dared another look at the Atford Gallery and an abrupt wave of disappointment and frustration washed over her. The art curator said Maya arrived just a little too late. Maybe if she hadn't stopped for a cup of coffee at Topanga's, she would've acquired the last spot in the exhibition. Perhaps if she didn't find herself caught in traffic, she would've arrived at the gallery at an earlier time, scoring the second spot in the exhibition. Or maybe if she hadn't taken such a long time attempting to look presentable, Maya would've been extra-extra early and she would've taken the first-ever spot in the art exhibition.
Heaving a dispirited sigh, Maya returned her attention to her artworks. She carefully sprawled them on the bench, making sure that each one was in plain sight, and gazed at them as though they were her starving children and she was a mother who couldn't feed them enough nutritious food.
"What am I ever going to do with you?" Maya murmured under her breath, still examining her artworks. She didn't want to sell them—they were too precious for her. They were her best works so far in the entire continuance of her "barely there" art career.
Maya gathered her things again and checked both sides of the road for oncoming traffic before she traversed the street. Her best friend, Riley Friar, wanted her to stop by for dinner, but after what occurred ten minutes ago, Maya was no longer in the mood to socialize. All she wanted to do was to head home and wallow in her frustration.
If that art curator knew how hard she worked on her pieces, and how many Tan House Events clients she had to turn down just so she could focus on her art, maybe she'd arrive at her senses and realize how mindless she was for letting Maya go.
Just then, Maya's phone blared from the inside of her cross-body bag. She assumed it was Riley calling, most likely to ask her to fetch something at the grocery store before she comes over for dinner. As much as Maya loved her best friend wholeheartedly, Riley's enthusiasm wasn't what she needed that night.
Leaning her artworks against a lamppost, Maya zipped her cross-body bag open and pulled out her phone. It was dead, which instantly told Maya that it wasn't her phone that was ringing; it was the other one, Katy's business phone. Stowing her personal phone back inside her bag, she fished for the other device and answered the call.
"Sorry, I can't take your call today—"
"But, you answered—"
Maya took no notice of the man's teasing voice at the other end of the line. "Please call again sometime tomorrow. Thank you."
After ending the call, Maya clicked the lock button on the phone and shoved it back inside her cross-body bag. She knew she was putting a wedge in Katy's business as an event coordinator by holding off that one new client, but at that moment, she didn't care. What was important to her that night was her art. How was she supposed to showcase her masterpieces to the entire world when she couldn't even show it to New York City?
Song of the Chapter: Some Days by The Maine.
And there you have it! Like I said, there's not a lot of difference from the previous version, but the following chapters sure will be much, much different.
Thanks for sticking with me, and I can't wait to hear from you.