"Orbiting," he corrects. His mouth curves just slightly. "There's a difference."
I laugh, quiet enough that it doesn't carry. "What's the difference?"
"Hovering implies you need help." He shifts his weight, shoulder brushing the wall next to mine. "Orbiting just means I'm staying close."
His voice is calm, but there's something underneath it. Tension.
I study his profile. The line of his jaw is tight. His hands slide back into his pockets.
"You okay?" I ask.
He turns his head and meets my eyes.
For two seconds, he doesn't answer.
Then he nods. "Yeah. I'm good."
I hear something in that pause, but I let it go.
Across the room, someone's approaching again—a younger woman with a notebook, probably a student or a journalist.
Tom sees her at the same time I do.
Before I can step forward, he touches my wrist.
"Would you mind taking a quick walk with me?" he asks.
Chapter fifty-one
Tom
Sam's heels click behind me as we cross the gallery. I don't look back. I just keep walking, heart hammering against my ribs. My hands drop back into my pockets to hide the shaking.
We turn into the other exhibition space.
I stop at the threshold and step aside.
Sam takes three more steps before she sees them.
She stops.
The photographs line the wall under gallery lights—twelve black frames, white mats, clean spacing. The fire escape cutting across weathered brick. The kid's hand pressed flat against chain-link. Light falling through the bodega window onto cracked linoleum.
Work I've never shown anyone.
Sam moves closer to the first frame. Her head tilts slightly, the way it does when she's reading a site plan. She's quiet. Completely still.
I stay where I am, hands in my pockets, trying to breathe normally.
She moves to the next photograph. The old man on the stoop, shadow from the fire escape falling across his shoulders in diagonal lines. Her hand comes up, fingers hovering near the mat but not touching.
My chest tightens.
She steps to the title card.
I watch her eyes move across the text.
The Bronx.
