Inside, she moved through the space like she belonged there, pausing in front of each piece for long moments. Her head tilted. Her brow furrowed. Sometimes her fingers twitched at her side, like she was itching to pick up a brush.
“This one.” She stopped in front of a large abstract piece. Sweeping blues and greens, layered thick enough that the paint seemed to rise off the canvas. “Look at the texture. See how she built it up in sections? You can almost feel the movement.”
I stepped closer, trying to see what she saw. “It looks like water.”
She turned to me, delighted. “It does, right? But it’s not literal. It’s thefeelingof water. The weight of it, the way it pulls at you.” She pointed to a darker section near the bottom. “That’s the undertow. You don’t see it at first, but once you do, you can’t unsee it.”
I listened to her explain the brushstrokes, the choices, the intent. I nodded along, but mostly I was just watching her. She spoke with such authority, such passion. It was sexy as hell.
“Come on,” she grabbed my hand again, pulling me deeper into the gallery. “There’s one more room.”
The smaller space held a single massive canvas. Chaos. Reds bleeding into oranges, slashed with black. It looked like a car crash turned into paint.
Emily stood before it like she was in church.
“This is it,” she murmured. “God, to be able to let go like that.”
“It looks... angry,” I ventured.
“It is,” she said. “It’s angry and sad and messy. The artist just bled onto the canvas. They didn’t try to make it pretty. They just made it true.” She looked at me then, her guard completelydown. “That’s the hardest part. Being brave enough to show the mess.”
“You do that,” I said. “Your painting for the show? It made me feel things I didn’t have names for. You’re already there, Em. You just need to let yourself see it.”
She stared at me, her eyes shimmering slightly under the gallery lights. Then she stepped in, rising on her toes to press a firm kiss to my mouth. “Thank you,” she whispered against my lips.
My heart lurched. “You’re welcome.”
We wandered out into the golden light of afternoon. Emily was still buzzing. talking about color theory and composition as I guided us down the block.
“One more stop.” I steered her toward a storefront up ahead.
She faltered when she clocked the window display. Jerseys. Caps. Pennants. All of it in navy and white pinstripes.
“Um.” She looked from the Yankees logo to me and back again. “Cam, why are we at a sports store?”
“You need a shirt.”
“I need a shirt,” she repeated slowly, her eyes roving over the window. “A Yankees shirt.”
I watched the gears turn. Watched comprehension dawn across her features like sunrise breaking over a ridge.
Her head snapped toward me.
“No.”
I grinned.
“No. Cam.No.You didn’t.”
“I did.”
The sound that came out of her wasn’t quite a scream. More like a shriek that startled a flock of pigeons off a nearby awning and made several passersby give us concerned looks.
Then she was kissing me, hard and fast.
“Yankee Stadium.” She pulled back just enough to speak, her voice cracking. “You’re taking me to Yankee Stadium. I’ve never — it’s been on my bucket list since I was eight.Eight, Cam.”
“I know.” I tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “You mentioned it once. Said it was on your bucket list.”
