“Not in love,” she batted back.
Holding back my giggle was pointless. “You’re about two years too late denying that, Dais.”
“He found me crying in the stairwell last night.” She shook her head. “He looked so worried and I wouldn’t tell him why I was crying, so I stormed off like some pathetic child who can’t handle her emotions.”
My eyes hovered up to find the painting staring back at us, and I lowered my voice. “Maybe that’s why you’re freakingout—because you expressed them in a way that made them real.”
Her sniffle echoed. “Well, making them real scared the shit out of Jesse.”
I stifled my laugh. “Because that boy cares about you.”
“He cares about someone else now.”
Both of our eyes onOphelia, I whispered, “Not the way he’s always cared about you.”
Her sodden eyes turned up to me, like dewy spring meadows. Her mouth glided open, but before anything could fall out, her eyes drifted over my shoulder, and as I turned around she wiped at her eyes, ridding them of whatever tears she could.
As I spun I found Jesse, who looked like he’d run all the way from the hotel and not stopped until he found us. Or found Daisy, more likely.
I smiled up at him. “Hey Jess.”
“Hey.” His dimples deepened, but not as much as they usually did when he smiled. He took a step forward—his blue jeans, vintage Nike sweater and high-tops making that sense of familiarity sweep over me. He nodded his chin at me. “Mind if I steal Dais for a sec?”
I shook my head. “Nope, she’s all yours.” I narrowed my eyes as I finished the sentence, and I knew he knew what I was saying. The way he bobbed his head from side to side and the slight roll of his eyes said everything.
He knew he was in trouble, even when, technically,he wasn’t.
I moved aside and looked back at Dais, whose eyes were tracking Jess, not budging even when I slipped my arm off her shoulder as she breezed by. And before long I was on my own, wandering the near-empty halls and basking in the beauty of art surrounding me. All mine for the perusing.
I stumbled through a few more rooms before coming across one where the lights were dimmed, only the spotlights above the paintings warming the walls. I slowly wandered, basking in the eerie quietness, before stopping underProserpineby Rossetti.
We’d studied it in first year, when we were dabbling with fruits and bodies and the relationship between the two. It wasn’t my favourite, but I appreciated the beauty of it. It was even more beautiful up close.
I was getting lost in the details when I felt another person brush up beside me. Thinking nothing of it, I kept on admiring the art.
Until the person spoke.
“What do you like about this one then, prey tell?” My head whipped around and the panic that made my heart sink evaporated entirely.
“Patrick.” I quietly gasped, right as he turned to me. “Fancy seeing you here.”
It took me a few seconds for mind to catch up, our encounter at the premiere a few months back replaying in my mind.
I wonder what he was doing here.
One of his shoulders lifted, his mouth pulling. “Committee business calls. And besides, I love it here. London is the artcapital of the world.” He brushed off some lint on his blue suit, dipping his voice. “Don’t tell Paris.”
My giggle was quiet, and before long both our attentions were back on the painting.
“So,” he breathed. “What do you like about it?”
I dipped my head to the side, shock wearing off just a little. “The romantic tone, the elegance. And the colour palette, I suppose.”
“You don’t see the sadness?”
I looked back at the work of art, hand jutting toward the gold frame. “She’s in the underworld. Of course she’s sad.”
Patrick hummed, like he was weighing up my answers. “Look at her eyes. Really look.”
