“Sure.”Abort.Abort.
I grabbed his arm and started walking us towards a great brunch spot nearby.“Come on.I have a craving for French toast.”
“Oh, my favorite.”
Damn he was cute.I made sure to walk with some distance between us.Not too much, but, like, a friendly amount.Whatever the fuck that was.
Afterward,I should have gone home.Really, what were we doing?We never hung out outside of work.But we were friends now (no thanks to my alcohol-addled brain for letting that term slip), and friends spent time together outside of work, right?
Even if they also happened to be fucking.
And look.It wasn’t that I hadn’t had friends before.I’ve had many.Of varying genders and situations.
So, why did whatever this was with Sam feel so different?
It felt like a secret to admit that I kind of understood him.I recognized that stubborn streak and need to prove yourself.To cut your own path, regardless of what stood in your way.
He cared about people, about what they needed, how they should be treated.That was easy to see in how he approached his work, his customers, his brother, hell, even me (now).
Sure, there were times that he was quiet or overly serious or a little stuffy; but could I really judge him all that harshly when I was at the other end of that spectrum?
He’d judged me too fast in the beginning, but I was guilty of the same to him.And, if the tables had been turned and I was about to face off with someone who had done one of my brothers dirty for years (and ok, I didn’t think Sam or Harry would say that about me, but come on, I had overstepped on occasion.I wasn’t completely blind to that), I would have acted the same way as Sam.Actually, I probably would have been worse.
So, yeah.We were friends.Who fucked.
And who apparently went on garden walks and brunched and then visited a museum.
It was honestly the city’s fault.The Art Institute was.Right.There.And it was amazing.You live here and not visit.I dare you.
And ok, maybe it was a little more touristy than, say, the Museum of Contemporary Art, but (and forgive me, this was just my personal preference) I liked the classics.I know.Me.A lover of the classics over modern.
I got the hypocrisy.
Sam, it happened, was a fan of them as well, but that was far less surprising.So, we walked over and enjoyed the peace of a mid-Monday crowd.
As much as I loved it there, it had honestly been a while since I’d visited because Hannah never enjoyed it.She acknowledged its place but cared more about local artists and the traveling exhibits that showed at the MCA (which I one hundred percent supported).
But still.The classics.
I don’t know what I expected from Sam.See, the way I saw it, creativity was a personal journey.It’s your way of expressing yourself.What you liked in art and what you created artistically was unique.
So, I was curious to see how Sam approached it.
The way I liked to experience museums usually annoyed people (see: Hannah).I wandered aimlessly, sometimes doubling back on myself, letting my eyes roam until something caught my eye, and I’d have to get closer.Take it in.On and on until I’d had my fill or my time was up.
I didn’t want to wax poetic about the influences and why this piece worked and why that didn’t, what the style was, or what was so revolutionary about the time period or what the artist intended to say.
I just liked what I liked.Simple as that.
Mimi would probably joke that that should be the slogan of my life.She probably had, and I’d taken it as a personal mantra.
Sam, I was pleased to discover, was as studious and attentive as always, quietly taking in each piece, occasionally pausing but never overstaying his welcome.The time passed quickly as we quietly wandered from room to room, Sam not hovering but never too far from me.It was nice.
I’d checked in with him once, only to be told, “I’ll be quite alright here without you, you know.”At that, a breath had escaped me, larger than the one I'd remembered taking.It was like relaxing a muscle I’d held tight for a long time.
And if we did stop at the same piece, he always had something insightful to say.It was comfortable to continue like that for an hour or two, periodically noticing him nearby, always close.
The quiet was nice.I’d forgotten just how refreshing it could be.
