I cross the gallery toward him. I don't decide to—my feet just go, and by the time my brain catches up I'm beside him, close enough to smell that clean expensive scent.
"You came," I say.
He turns. And for one unguarded second, before the composure clicks back, I see his face completely open. The mask is off. What's underneath is raw and startled and so hungry it makes my breath catch.
Then it's gone. Smoothed over.
But I saw it. And he knows I saw it.
"I said I would." His voice is lower than usual. Rougher.
"What do you think?" I nod toward the sculpture.
He turns back to the piece. I watch his profile in the gallery light and I'm aware that I'm standing too close to him and I don't move back.
"The gap," he says. "At the top. That's where the whole piece lives."
"Why?"
"Because it's where the choice is. The ribs could close. You could have closed them. But you left the space open, and the openness is—" He pauses. Chooses his word. "Brave."
The word lands in the center of my chest.
It's the right word. Exactly right. And it's not a gallery word—not interesting, striking, powerful. Brave means he understood what leaving the gap open cost me.
"That's a very specific observation," I say. "For someone who just wandered in."
"I didn't wander. I came to see your work." He holds my gaze. "It's better than I imagined."
"You imagined it?"
"Since the hardware store. Since you told me you were a sculptor."
The honesty disarms me. Underneath the smoothness, something sounds like truth. He's been thinking about my work. About me.
"And does it match?" I ask. "What you imagined?"
"No." His eyes move from the sculpture to me—seamlessly, as if we're the same question. "It's more."
I should step back. This man is too much. Too focused. Too good at slipping past my defenses.
I don't step back.
"You never told me what you do," I say.
"Consulting. Corporate restructuring."
"That's vague."
"It's a vague field."
"You're doing it again."
"Doing what?"
"Being perfect. Giving me the right answer at the right moment. It's unnerving."
Something shifts in his expression. Surprise that I've named the thing he thought was invisible. "I'm not trying to be perfect."
