“What’s this?” I ask.
“I want to show you something,” he replies, “but I don’t want you to make a big deal out of it.” His expression is stern, which makes me laugh.
“What are you talking about?”
“I have never brought anyone here, and I haven’t even told anyone about it, okay? So it’s just you.”
He seems almost nervous, which is strange for Declan. He’s always so confident and relaxed around me, but it’s almost like he’s looking at me for comfort.
“Just me? What on earth is this?” Then I read the inscription on the door. “An art gallery?” I ask.
“Come on,” he says with a sigh. Then he opens the door and ushers me inside. There’s a prickle of excitement under my skin.
A handsome man with curly hair and a sharp suit greets us at the door. With his hands behind his back, he nods toward Declan as he says, “Afternoon, Mr. Barclay.”
“Afternoon, Karl,” he responds.
“What is going on?” I ask in confusion.
“Please have a look around,” the man says, “and let me know if you need anything.”
“Thanks, Karl,” Declan replies as he rests a hand on the small of my back. Then he leads me gently through a door of the gallery, and I scan the room, confused. We’ve been to a fair share of museums this weekend. We saw the Van Gogh Museum and the Rijksmuseum, so I’m a bit perplexed as to why we’re at this small gallery with artists I’ve never heard of before.
“Like I said,” he mumbles, “don’t make a big deal out of it.”
“Make a big deal out of what?” I ask, but then we turn a corner, and there it is. Or should I say, thereIam?
“Just be glad I didn’t use the naked one on the couch,” he whispers in my ear, but I don’t respond. I can’t. I’m speechless.
To anyone else, they might not recognize that the man in the painting is me, but I know because I recognize the moment. It was a midnight coffee shop with intimate lighting. I’m slumped on a green velvet sofa, a drunken smile on my face as I hold my hands over my eyes, laughing behind my fingers.
Declan’s paintings have such unique qualities. The way he captures light and emotion, the way I can feel what he’s feelingas he paints his subjects. And yet, I’ve never seen this painting before. He must have done it from memory of that night. The one where I got too drunk, and he sacrificed whatever meaningless hookup would have awaited him to take care of me.
The night we shared cappuccinos and secrets.
The night he became my best friend.
It was always significant to me. I had no idea it was so significant to him.
“Declan,” I whisper. “How? Why?”
“The guy who owns this place,” he says, “is a friend of a friend, and he asked for a piece of mine to feature, so I gave him this one. It was hard to part with.”
“How come you never showed me this?” I ask.
“I don’t know,” he says. “I was embarrassed, I guess. I didn’t want you to think it was weird of me to paint you that night, but I just remember it so vividly that it was easy.”
I take a step forward and read the inscription next to the painting:A beautiful man in warm light.A smile stretches across my face.
“You think I’m beautiful?” I ask, turning toward him with a coy smirk. Normally, I’m the one blushing, but this time, I notice a rosy tint on Declan’s cheeks as he grins and shakes his head.
“Of course I do,” he replies, trying to remain casual. “I wouldn’t enjoy fucking you so much if I didn’t.”
I think he means it to be a sort of cool and macho answer, but I see right through it. Because the fact that Declan and I have sex with each other is about a lot more than him thinking I’m beautiful. He knows it, and I know it.
“Wait, is this your first artwork in a gallery?” I ask.
He presses his lips together tightly before nodding. “Aye,” he mutters.
