“I know,” he says, and he says it like an acknowledgment, not a correction.
The room is so quiet I can hear the classical track do whatever it does to keep rich people from talking too loud. My heartbeat picks up and settles into the slow thrum of the speakers.
We look at each other without a show. I go first because I want to set the terms.
“You call it protection,” I say. “But you’re still choosing without me. If you’re so sure you’re the person who should keep my doors shut, then come out from behind a number. Be what you are in daylight.”
He looks at my hands. It’s slight, but it tells me that he tracks fingers because fingers are where fear shows and where lies live. My hands are steady because anger will do that for you. He nods once, accepting the terms without conceding the ground. “My name’s been on a wall longer than yours,” he says, as if that’s the privacy he keeps for himself. “Daylight isn’t always a gift.”
“Then you can stop picking,” I exhale. “Let me choose where your light goes.”
Another flicker at his jaw. “Did you come up here because you were curious,” he asks, “or because Lila can’t be everywhere at once?”
“Both,” I reply.
He accepts that. He angles toward the sideboard, not to pour a drink but to give me the distance that makes normal conversations happen. He picks up a crystal glass and sets it down with care. The knuckles on his right hand carry small scars that aren’t from keyboards. I notice them despite myself. I hate that I notice; I hate that he notices I noticed.
“Your work,” he says, “doesn’t care if rooms like this exist. It would exist if this place burned down. It would exist if donors decided to move on to the next fashion. That’s part of why it matters. You don’t need us to do what you do. You need us to stop the noise from dictating your terms.”
He doesn’t overpraise. He doesn’t say “genius” or “brave.” He says it like he’s describing a system. It’s dangerous because it’s almost what I want to hear.
“I don’t need a warden,” I assert.
“I’m not your warden,” he responds, after a second. “I’m the only reason you’re still untouched.”
There’s nothing romantic in the way he says it. No heat he tries to hide. He says it like a fact he has to put on the table, so he doesn’t have to say it again. It should make me want to leave.It almost does. The word untouched doesn’t sound prurient in his mouth; it reads like a promise he made to himself and writes into other people’s nights.
“Untouched is a big word,” I say. “You don’t get to use it.”
He takes that hit calmly. “Untouched tonight,” he says. “And tomorrow if I have anything to say about it.”
I look at his hands again. They have a medic’s steadiness with a scar on the middle knuckle of the right hand like he punched something that didn’t give. A thin white line on the edge of the left thumb where a blade kissed him years ago. I imagine those hands shutting a door and holding it shut while other hands beat on it. I imagine those hands breaking the wrong wrist if the wrong person reached for a girl’s arm. I don’t like that the image sits in my head without my permission. He sees something move across my face and stays very still, like approaching an animal that might bolt if he breathes.
“My work is not an accident,” I point out, because I need to put the room back on my ground. “I’m not painting doors by mistake. I’m not a whistle-blower. I’m not a mapmaker for men who like maps or a saint for your slides. If this room exists to make me say thank you for being allowed to do my job, you’re wasting both our time.”
“This room exists,” he says, “so you can say anything without someone turning it into an article. It exists so I can tell you things I won’t put in a text.”
I don’t take that bait. He has a list. If I let him read it, I’m saying yes to more rooms. “Two minutes,” I manage to grind out. “We said two.”
His mouth ticks in the corner with something that could be humor if he let it be. “You’re counting.”
“I always count,” I snap, and meet his eyes dead on so he knows I’m not playing a part for him. “Let me save you time. I’m not going to say thank you for the camera. I am not going to bephotographed next to your board chair. I’m not going to let you put ‘partner’ on anything with my name. I’m not going to let you use my work to prove your rooms exist. If you want to spend money to keep other men away from me while I do my job, I’m not going to stop you. If you want me to decide that means I owe you, I’m going to disappoint you.”
“I don’t want you to owe me.”
“You keep behaving like you do,” I say.
“I keep behaving like I can see the places you don’t need to be,” he says. “And I can put a body in front of you before you have to say no out loud to someone who won’t hear it.”
“You want me to let you do that,” I say.
“I want you to keep my number,” he says. “And I want you to call before it gets loud.”
“That sounds like you want obedience,” I say.
“That sounds like I want you to keep painting next week,” he says. “On your schedule. In your space. Without some man who reads reddit threads about ‘underground clinics’ deciding your back door is an invitation.”
He’s right about the reddit boys. He’s right about donors. He’s right about the senator with a soft jaw who would love a scandal he can ride. I hate that he’s right. I hate that he is the only person in this room who can pull three levers before I get to the second one and make the cameras look elsewhere.
