The rest of the next hour saw multiple rounds of $5 beers (there’s a reason this is Copper Works’ go-to Happy Hour spot) as well as many shouted conversations from the group. It also contained a good number of side-long glances from me toward the popular artist I’d been, let’s face it, obsessing over for months. I cannot believe Devo is here. Am I sure it’s him? Was the mystery artist of all those paintings, depicting women in ecstasy, the same person as the grinning man with the ruffled brown hair, sitting just two feet from me? He can’t be much older than me either. I try to act normal and speak with the people in my earshot, but I’d be lying if I said I’m fully engaged.
Every time Daisy puts her hand on Devo’s arm and laughs, I notice. Every time his head turns in my direction, I notice. Every time anyone at the table addresses him, I tune in to thebest of my abilities. What had I missed before the trip to McArthur’s? Had he introduced himself to everyone back at Copper Works? What had he said?
Out of the blue, someone snaps their fingers in my face and breaks my long contemplative stare-off with the center of the table. I release my bottom lip from between my teeth and look up at Miles, who’s reaching over Minnie to get my attention.
“Hey there girlie!” he yells over the music. “You’re in your own little world again! We’re here to be social!” He mock-shimmies his shoulders. The girl he’d left the booth for is nowhere to be found. Apparently, he’d struck out his first go at bat. Lucky for him, there’s a benchwarmer ready for her chance on the field: plied with a few shots, Minnie is looking up at Miles as if she’d like to run her hands up his shirt. Miles finally sees what I see and engages with the shy young beauty before him. He sweeps into a partial bow and holds out a hand to her. “May I have this dance, Minnie Mouse?” She swats his chest and giggles in the manner of a girl with a crush. He sweeps her away into the crowd of bar patrons beginning to break it down to the late 2000s hit, “Drop it Like it’s Hot.”
“Hey, can I scoot out?” Rob yells into my ear from behind me. “I’ve gotta use the little boys’ room.” I nod my head in response and begin to move out of the booth without turning around. My hypervigilance on Devo’s position makes it so that my entire body stiffens at the realization that we’re about to have no one between us.
If it weren’t for the few rounds of drinks I’d consumed already, I might have joined Miles and Minnie in the dancing area to avoid Devo. But I’m feeling just a little bit brave and so I slide back into the booth. Once I’m settled in the middle of the faux leather seat, I sweep my eyes up to the left and almost immediately meet Devo’s gaze. God, his multicolored eyes are... bewitching. Not a word I use to describe most men. I hold his stare for long enough to mean something, but not long enough to really figure out what it is.
I stare down at my lap and take a deep breath—drawing focus by drumming my fingers on the waxy wooden edge of the table. To my nerves’ dismay, I notice that the rest of our party is also choosing this time to transition onto the dance floor. The other side of the booth is ejecting person by person, as if from a pez dispenser.
I look up to assess the exodus and see that Daisy is looking between the last few people scooting out of the booth and Devo’s face. He’s only looking at me. I have a feeling Daisy’s not going to feel great about me after tonight’s events.
Finally concluding that Devo’s attention is lost to her, Daisy also scoots her way out the other side of the booth. And… we’re alone. In the corner of a dark bar. While a distracted crowd dances between the tables and chairs in front of us. Car headlights occasionally flash through the windows, highlighting the sharp planes of Devo’s face as he assesses me, leaning back with his arms behind his head.
The few times Devo the artist had been pictured next to a Muse Painting, his face had always been partially obscured. At the start of his fame, he’d always been turned away from the camera, or was pictured pulling the brim of a baseball hat down low over his face. In the last few reveals, he’d stood beside his painting, wide stance, arms crossed, head down, with a jagged black mask covering the lower half of his face. I’d never been able to find a picture of him looking up, and believe me, I’d tried. Devo had always remained unidentifiable.
Now, as I look up at him, I think what a shame it is that a man with such magnetic features feels the need to cover his face. I clear my throat.
“So, um, hi.” I awkwardly extend my hand, the very one he’d had his mouth to earlier this evening. “I’m Charlotte.” He takes my hand in his warm, rough grip and gives me a genuine grin.
“Hi, I’m Devlin,” he projects in a deep voice, making sure I can hear him above the cacophony of noises around us. He leans in closer, still gripping my hand. “And I think it’s a little late for ahandshake, no?” I can feel the heat creeping up in my cheeks again and hope he can’t see it in the dark room as he pulls away and drops my hand. “You’ve already introduced yourself!” he almost has to yell back. Devlin leans back and crosses his arms, taking in the full view of my profile. His eyes run up from my breasts, the side of my neck and then drink in my full face. It feels like he’s memorizing me. I feel exposed.
“What do you mean?” I finally manage to get out. My voice feels a bit strained as I try to ride the line between speaking and yelling. He laughs with his head slightly tilted back. The warmth of both his voice and expression as he unwinds his arms from his chest has me leaning in. I feel drawn to him. I don’t know what I expected. If this…Devlinperson,is who I assume he is, then my idea of him was off base. I guess I would have expected someone colder, more aloof. Someone who wouldn’t stay with a bunch of struggling artists in Brooklyn at a low-rent bar in a sticky booth. The person in front of me is clearly a man but has an almost boyish charm. I smile in response to his amusement, but still wait for an answer.
He gestures to me and then imitates writing with a pencil. “Your letters,” he says back, “I’ve enjoyed them.” There’s a moment of silence between us as I mentally review everything exchanged in those letters, ending on: “I volunteer.” My heart really races now. Had I really signed up for something without knowing what it entails?
“How do I know…” I trail off, narrowing my eyes as I let my skepticism try to protect me for a moment. I sit up straighter in the booth and cross my arms. We’ve swapped postures. He faces me openly, softly grinning and up to no good. My walls are ready to go up. I continue, “How do I know that you are who you say you are?” My eyes narrow, detective mode activated. His eyes sparkle in response and he scoots closer to the ice queen I’m becoming. I keep my arms crossed, but I hesitate as his scent washes over me. He smells like a combination of aftershave, acrylic paint and musk. It’s a comfortable smell, and something I want more of. I try not to make the deep inhale through my nose obvious. He can’t see I’msmellinghim for god’s sake.
“You mean that I’m Devo?” he asks casually. No attempt to hush his tone. Although it wouldn’t have mattered in this establishment anyway, no one is trying to eavesdrop and the music is still blaring. I shrug one shoulder and give a small nod. He scoots closer again, to the point where it starts to feel silly to have my arms crossed. I drop my hands into my lap as I look up at him. He keeps his chin up and smiles down at me, enjoying the challenge and clearly not too concerned with making his case. After a long moment, he juts his chin towards Alex, who’s fist pumping on the dance floor.
“Your friend believes me,” he says. He meets my eyes again, waiting to see if that would sway me.
“Alex is an idiot,” I say back.
“Oof.” Devlin mock stabs himself in the heart and laughs. “You’re tough!”
I purse my lips in an effort to hold back a smile.No.I’m in control,I think,I control my reactions.
He continues when I don’t immediately respond, “He had nice things to say about you, you know—your idiot friend. Said you’re talented.”
My eyes widen a bit. “You asked about me?”
“Of course.” He drinks in my reaction. “I look into anyone I might collaborate with.”
That blush creeps back up my cheeks.
“I still don’t know that you are who you say you are.” And I mean it. I know I can look naïve, but I pride myself on knowing the truth and seeing things for what they really are. No way I’m going to be conned by a handsome stranger—no matter how charming he is.
“You know, I started thinking about this when I first caught a glimpse of you back at the studio.” He cocks his head. “Since Devo is myalias, I don’t think I have any proof on me that you’d accept.”
I look to the side. I don’t know what proof I’m expecting either.Hmm.Maybe our first emails before we moved to his archaic letter-writing system? “Bring out your phone,” I say. He winces and places his hand on the back of his neck. Then he shifts his hips and pulls out a tiny Nokia, a cellphone from a prior generation. I offer it, and him, a blank stare. “Does that thing evenhaveemail?”
“Ah, no.” He chuckles as he shifts again to put the two-bit technology back in the pocket of his jeans. “It’s a ‘burner,’” he says using air quotes.
“What?”
