He shoulders in like he’s been here a hundred times, which he has. He puts the coffees down, kicks the door shut with his heel, and drops the bag on the table. “Also, I brought napkins,” he announces, like he invented paper. “Also, you’re going to a fancy party tonight, and I’m here to make sure you don’t carry your canvases to the truck in a dress.”
“I wasn’t planning to wear the dress to the loading dock,” I say. “That seems like a choice even I wouldn’t make.”
He peels a pastry out of the bag and hands it to me like a peace offering. “Eat. You have a face.”
“You sound like Lila,” I groan, but I tear off a corner anyway. Heat and sugar work on me like medicine.
He taps the coffee nearest me. “Drink. There’s a day ahead.” He looks at the invitation and wrinkles his nose. “Are you excited to go be a glitter person?”
“I’m excited to survive the night without giving anyone a quote they can use for three months,” I say. “Does that count?”
“That’s the only kind of excitement I respect,” he says, then wipes sugar from his thumb onto his jeans like he keeps forgetting napkins exist. “Okay, logistics. I’m taking the van to the terminal at noon to drop my panel for the community wall—don’t make that face; it’s tacky but it’s money. They want a few small pieces from your series in the side lounge. Not auction, just… you know… ‘context.’ A curator word. I told them I’d help get them there, so you don’t have to lift a crate on party day.”
“Which ones?” I ask, trying not to turn the word context into a weapon.
“The hand study, the small three-quarter runner, and the little cheekbone you hate,” he says. “Not the anchor. They asked. I said no. Don’t worry. I invented a condition.”
“You didn’t have to—”
“I did,” he says. “You think I’m going to let them steal your centerpiece for a donor selfie? I like your work more than I like fried shrimp. And I really like fried shrimp.”
We wrap the three small canvases together. He’s gentle without making a show of it. We move around each other without knocking elbows. He whistles under his breath when he lifts the runner—one of his tells when he’s thinking about something he doesn’t want to say. I wait.
He sets the wrapped bundle upright near the door. “It’s good, you know,” he says without looking at me. “The buzz. The Ledger piece. The Museum talking like they discovered painting but not in a gross way. You earned this.”
“It’s not a prize,” I say.
“I know,” he shrugs. “It’s a mouth you have to feed.” He glances at my hands. “You still painting with those little flats? I brought you a monster.” He pulls a cheap hardware store brush out of his jacket like a magician. The bristles are stiff and already shedding. “For gesso. Or for throwing at a man who says something stupid.”
“I can do both,” I say, and set the brush on the shelf where it will live until I need to look at something that isn’t delicate.
We eat pastry too fast because we both forget to eat like humans when there’s moving to do. He drinks half his coffee in one go and makes a face like a child trying not to spit medicine. “I lied. I hate your coffee. It tastes like punishment.”
“Drink water,” I laugh.
“I’ll drink after I chain-smoke outside like an amateur,” he says cheerfully. He doesn’t smoke anymore. He likes the image.
He lifts the first bundle and looks at the door. “Truck’s in the alley. I’ll be in and out. No paparazzi, interns, or chaos.”
“Liar,” I chuckle, because chaos follows him like a confused puppy.
He grins. “Two trips,” he says. “Three if I stop to get you more coffee.” He bumps my shoulder as he goes because he’s tactile by default and I let him. The door clicks. The hallway swallows him.
The room feels different when he’s not in it, like a frequency changed. I check the back door because I will always check the back door now. The lock holds. The cloth over the camera hangs. The invitation sits in the lamp’s light like it will wait as long as it needs to.
By eleven, we have the pieces wrapped and staged. Jonah texts from the alley:van loaded. I’ll be back by 1 to pick you up if you want a ride to your hair appointment..He adds a spray can and a star because everything is theater to him, even when he means it.
Me:Lila has me hostage at 11. Meet us after if you want to see me fight a dress.
Jonah:I live for that.
Lila arrives like a storm. Her scarf is an event. Her bag looks like it could fit a small child and probably does. She kisses my cheek without disturbing any surface and dumps an armful of fabric onto the chair like a magician unveiling a trick. The lilac dress catches the light and then throws it back. Shimmer, not glitter. Silk that doesn’t lie. She’s on high.
“Okay,” she says without breath. “I have choices, but I already know which one you’re wearing. And before you do the face, it has straps. It’s cut like you own your shoulder blades. It goes long without tripping you. And it’s on loan from the gallery queen’s secret wardrobe which means it has survived worse people than anyone you’re going to meet tonight.”
She holds it up to my body and makes a satisfied sound. “See?” she says. “This is a weapon.”
“It’s backless,” I say.
