But sure enough, the museum is open until nine on Fridays, so I don’t think twice about buying a ticket.
The ride there isn’t terribly far, and I take the small respite of time in the car to check my text messages. My heart sinks a little when I see I have no new messages from Cam, but I have a few texts from the realtor, so I answer those, knowing we need to confirm our details for the first round of properties we’ll be visiting tomorrow.
The car stops, and I look out my window, my eyes widening at the sight of the grand museum. I pay my driver, exiting the car quickly and just marvel at the sight of the place.
It’s much bigger in person than I expected it to be.
But I guess it would have to be big if they have full pyramid installations and historical buildings housed in it, like they say they do on their website.
I take the steps, one by one, thankful that I make it to the top without running out of breath. I slip past the crowds easily, taking my time as I wander through the halls, taking in the absolute beauty of the high ceilings, the ornate stairwells, and for a minute I forget I’m in New York at all.
I wander through the curatorial collections in absolute awe. I don’t know much about art, not in the way I probably should. But I bet Cam would know every painting in this place, or at least know what era or whatever it was from. I can still remember studying and reviewing his modern art flashcards with him for his exams.
I stop, my hands still resting in my pockets as I take in the paintings on the wall. One in particular stands out to me, out of my peripheral vision, so I turn to get a good look at it. I swallow hard when I see it is a nude painting of a man gazing out at the viewer in a way I can only describe as seductive. The painting is magnificent, the shadows and colors, the definition of the form. I can’t turn away even though it makes me uncomfortable.
And then I do something without thinking. I take my hand out, making a fist and extending my pointer finger. I trace the shapeof his outline in the air, trying to capture the shape for my own memory.
“Austen?” The familiar voice that calls my name makes my throat tight and my heart skip a beat. I’d know that voice anywhere and a part of me wonders if I’m imagining it. If standing in front of this painting, this— Gustave Courbet painting—is making me have some sort of psychotic break.
When I turn around and meet familiar steely grey eyes, I have to remember how to speak.
Because the sight of him brings back a hundred memories, incites a hundred thoughts, and renders me nearly speechless. Of all the places in New York, what are the odds?
“Hey,” I say, my voice slightly raspy and choked.
Cameron smirks. “Hey.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Cameron
I get a full two weeks at home this time. It’s rare I’m in one place for so long, but to be fair, I did choose this lifestyle. I make sure my life is busy and there’s always something to do. First, it was about the money, and when I had so much of that I didn’t know what to do with it, it became more about keeping my mind busy. I can’t get lost in bad thoughts if I’m always talking to people and turning this way and smiling that way.
But since I’m home for so long, it’s about time I get familiar with the city I live in. New York is a beautiful place, and though I’ve been here and there, it’s all been for work. When it comes to my personal life, all I’ve done around here is grab food and hide away in my penthouse apartment.
I’m not sure what brings me to the Met on a Friday night. No doubt it’ll be packed, but what else is there to do around here? Okay, well, there’s a ton of things to do in NYC on a Friday night, but nothing that’s appealing.
I head inside, purchase my ticket, and then I’m on my way. It’s a little pathetic that I’ve never been here before, considering this city has officially been my home for almost five years. I get lost in the art, ignoring that there are people everywhere. They all are lost to me as I gaze from painting to statue and back to more paintings. They’re all so beautiful and truly amazing. I think I could spend a full week in here and not tire of it.
There are tons of paintings in here I want to see, and with the amount of time I’m spending looking at each one, I’m not sure I’ll get to them all. But there is one on my list that I must see, one that holds a special place in my heart. It’s hard to say why, but ever since the first time I saw it in one of my early art classes, I’ve thought of it often.
In my opinion,Study of a Nude Manis one of the most beautiful pieces of work I’ve ever laid eyes on. And maybe it’s because I spent so much time studying the body when it comes to drawing and painting. I modeled for years for students to learn, and took extra classes because painting people was one of my favorite things to do. But this painting… to see it in person is going to be an absolute privilege.
I head down the hall and turn into room 809. The air leaves my lungs as soon as I step into the room, only it isn’t because of the painting. I wish it was because of the painting, but…
There’s no possible way I’m seeing what I think I’m seeing.
Why in the world would Austen be here?
Looking atthispainting at the exact time I am, no less. Did he seek it out? Did he remember it’s one of my favorites? I doubt it. I’m not sure I ever mentioned it to him, and if I did, he likely wouldn’t remember. Austen is talented when it comes todrawing, but he isn’t an art nerd the way I am. He doesn’t know art the way I do.
As far as I know, Austen doesn’t know where I live. Even if he did, there is no way in the world he would know I was coming here today. And, considering he’s already here, I’m the one who showed up after him.
What are the odds?
Slim to none, if I had to guess, yet… here he is. Standing in front of my favorite painting, looking at it with awe and wonder.
The soft display lights above him make the natural highlights in his hair brighter, and I notice for the first time how long and full it is. His shoulders are loose, his blue button down sleeves rolled up to the elbow, showcasing his toned forearms as he slips his hands into his pockets.
