But today, I get a glimpse thanks to a few prosthetics and the skills of our crew’s makeup artists. Liquid latex has been used to give her wrinkles so realistic that I want to reach out and run my fingers over her face, but I don’t want to disturb her.
We stand on the parquet flooring of the Art Institute of Chicago in front of Edward Hopper’sNighthawks,witnessing the iconic moody moment of a dinner at night, light filtering into an empty street corner.
It’s midday now and throngs of tourists and locals alike drift through the exhibits. None of them look at us twice. There’s a certain anonymity that comes with age. Maybe it’s because people are terrified of their own mortality and fear looking too long and being faced with their own future. It doesn’t matter the cause; we’ve taken full advantage of it.
I wonder if we’ll have to wait until we’re as old as we look now—late sixties, I think—before we have some peace, when people have no more uses for us.
“Ready to move on to the next room, Dot?” I ask.
She loops her arm through mine. “Lead the way, Rodger.”
“We should call Darren after,” I muse. We’ve completely leaned into the ruse. Here, we’re Dorothy and Rodger from Tennessee, because apparently neither of us can picture being from anywhere else. We have one son we had later in life, Darren, a university professor who craves order to counterbalance our chaos.
We weave through glass cases of pottery, and Avery comments, “We could try making our own.”
“Could be fun, I’ve got good hands.”
“Why else would I leave my first husband for you?” She bites her lips and cuts me a glance. “I mean, hypothetically. Right now, my current husband is holding on to me pretty tightly,” she jokes, and I do my best not to stumble. I can’t remember the last time she called me that—if ever.
A stone weighs heavily in my stomach. I’m excited to be here with her, be in the world like everyday people and have a taste of what could have been. But there’s a part of me that mourns the fact that the only time she is willing to touch me in front of others is when we’re pretending to be other people entirely.
On some level, I understand why. The moment we show any sign of romantic affection for each other, everyone will know and eagerly give their opinions. But I can’t shake the feeling that I’m something worth hiding.
Dirty.
“During the interview, you shut Ingrid down the moment she brought up the possibility we were together,” I start, thinking of how minutes before I reached for her hand in the dark and she let go. “Why?”
“It was a stupid question to ask. She just wanted to do it for shock value,” Avery says easily.
“Are you ashamed of being with me?”
She flinches, as if I’ve landed a physical blow. “How could you think that?”
“You don’t want to be seen with me. This morning you even said you wanted to keep things to just the hotel. Do you know how hard it is not to touch you every second of every day and you seem to only want to sleep with me in secret? It kind of makes me feel used.” A knot lodges in my throat as my eyes fall to the ground. “Like you’re embarrassed to be with me in public and I’m only any good to you in private.”
I want it to be different with Avery, and in so many ways it is. But after being with people who just want me and my body for a night, after how Maddie acted like I was some fucking object to possess, it’s what I’m used to. My mind can’t help but find the similarities.
The faux wrinkles on her face deepened as her brows pulled together. “No. Wes. No, that’s not how I see you at all. I don’t want to share you with anyone because I’m terrified the moment I do, they'll demand more than I’m able to give.” Her voice quivers. “I don’t want this to break again.”
“At some point we’ll have to stop treating this thing between us like it’s fragile. I don’t think it is. We rebuilt who we are together from the ground up despite everything that happened. We’re stronger than we ever were. I want to be in the world with you, Avery.”
She pauses, drinking in my words. “It really means that much to you, to be with me for everyone to see?”
“I don’t care about everyone seeing. I care about us, and we have to trust what we have together. I want to stop hiding.”
With a deep inhale, her features set with determined resolve. “All right. Then that’s what we’ll do.” She thrusts out her hand and I take it. I let her lead me back through exhibits and into the hall until we reach a family bathroom.
Inside, she pulls me to the sink and touches my face. “Are you ready?”
“For what exactly?”
“We had our day here. But you’re right, this wasn’t us. We’re not old people from Ohio with a son. It’s a fantasy and you helped me indulge in it. But the reality we have? That’s you and me. So let’s be young again.”
“There’s no going back,” I remind her.
“I know.”
Using hot water and a paper towel, we peel the latex from our skins. She’s careful with me, stopping anytime I wince.
