Thursday night before the gallery opening, I have drinks with another gallery owner who I’ve known for years. Leo is smart, handsome, and funny, and he’s been casually flirting with me for as long as we’ve known each other. Tonight, after a couple of apple and whiskey mules, he's more direct about it.
"We should do this more often." He reaches over, his hand brushing mine across the bar where we’re sitting. “Just the two of us, I mean. I know we’re both always so busy, but this is nice.”
I let his fingertips graze mine, glancing over at him, and try to feel something for him. He’d be a great potential boyfriend. The fact that he’s been flirting with me for so long means that he wantsme, not just a warm body in his bed. And even though we’re technically each other’s competition, we move in the same circles and work in the same world. He feels the same way about art as I do; we’ve even spent the last hour bitching about clients like David Ellis.
“My schedule is slammed,” I hear myself saying. “But I’ll definitely see you around.”
I can feel the disappointment coming off of him as he pays for our drinks—or tries, anyway, I quickly tell the bartender to give me my check separately, and I feel more disappointment from Leo’s direction—and I know I should give him more of a chance. But instead, I tell him I’ll see him at the gallery opening and catch a cab over there, trying not to think of Alexander and how Leo compares.
I feel like I'm watching life happen from behind glass. I have for a while, and it’s getting worse.Alexandermade it worse. Three brief encounters, and suddenly nothing else measures up.
It’s not rational, and I’m driving myself insane.
I stare out at the city lights as the taxi moves through traffic and wonder what I’m doing. I'm twenty-eight years old. I have a successful business, a beautiful apartment, a life that most people would envy. I should be happy. I should be focused on my work, on building my reputation, on all the things I've worked so hard for.
Instead, I'm obsessing over a man I’ve spent a grand total of less than five hours with.
I close my eyes and I'm back there. On the sidewalk, the first time I saw him, remembering the way everything else faded away when our eyes met. The way my heart stuttered in mychest. He called it a moment of connection, and that’sexactlywhat it was, but why am I still thinking about it?
Maybe Claire’s right. Maybe I should try to find him, if only so that I can see him be fallible, and get it through my head that no matter how gorgeous he is, no matter the chemistry, he’s still just a man. There’s nothing mythical about him; he’s going to fuck up like everyone else, and maybe I need to destroy the fairy tale by making him real.
But… he makes me feel like I could lose control with him. Like I could losemyselfin him, and that makes me want to stay very, very far away.
My phone buzzes. I grab it from my clutch, that stupid hopeful feeling rising in my chest again?—
It's just Annie, sending me a photo of the nursery. It's coming together beautifully, all soft blues and whites, with a mobile of origami-styled animals hanging over the crib. It’s so early to be getting the nursery together, but she said while I was visiting that it made her feel hopeful that everything would be fine, with how difficult the pregnancy has been so far.
I text her back as the cab nears the gallery, telling her it's perfect and asking how she's feeling.
She responds immediately:Good! Tired but good. Miss you already. When are you coming back?
I stare at the message.
When are you coming back?
The answer is, unfortunately, not anytime soon. It was hard enough to take the time to go see her last week; there’s no way I can take more time off in the near future. But just the thought of going back makes my pulse speed up—making me feel guilty, because it’s for reasons other than seeing Annie.
I can’t help but wonder if I’d seehimagain, which is completely irrational and entirely unlike me.
Huffing out a sigh, I shove my phone back into my clutch. I need to focus on work. On the auction next month. On the clients who are or want to work with me, the pieces that need authentication, the business I've built from the ground up. I need to forget about Alexander Volkov, and I need to move on.
—
The gallery openingis the usual industry chatter and elbow-rubbing, and I make a few good contacts over art discussions and glasses of wine. By the time I get back to my apartment and slip into my silk pjs, I’m feeling better about everything; I actually went a number of hours without thinking about Alexander.
But then, I dream about him again.
This time, we're in my gallery. It's after hours, the space empty and quiet, lit only by the soft glow of the track lighting. He's standing in front of the Diebenkorn, studying it with that same intensity he had in the museum.
I walk up beside him, and he turns to look at me.
"Tell me about it," he says, those blue eyes intense on mine, and I can’t help myself. I start to tell him all the things that David Ellis didn’t care to know—the history of the piece, the inspiration behind it. All the things about it thatmatter, that have nothing to do with its monetary value and everything to do with the creation of it.
He listens to every word, his eyes never leaving my face as I speak. When I finish, he reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, his fingers lingering against my skin.
"You're beautiful when you talk about art," he murmurs. "You light up from the inside."
"I love it," I whisper, leaning into the brush of his fingertips. "It's the only thing I've ever been sure of."
