“No,” she muses aloud, her tone even.“I didn’t think you would.”
Something about that settles deeper than it should.“And you?”I ask, watching her now with more focus than before.“Is that what this is?”
Her head tilts slightly.“What’s that?”
“This.”My hand moves subtly, not pointing, but gesturing up her frame.“This version of you.”
“I’m just me.I don’t put who I am in a bucket.”There’s no defensiveness in her tone.It’s simple and certain.
I hold her gaze a second longer, searching for something that isn’t immediately there.Or maybe something that is and I’m not reading it the way I used to.I don’t know how to correlate what was then, with what seems to be now.
“That wasn’t something you were interested in before.WhoI waswasn’t something you were interested in before.”
“No,” she agrees easily.“It wasn’t.”
“And now it is.”
“And now it is.”The repetition isn’t mocking.It’s grounding.
I let out a slow breath, more aware now of the fact that I’m not the one directing this conversation.Not entirely.“You didn’t seem surprised to see me.”The words come before I decide to say them.
She studies me for a moment, something thoughtful moving behind her eyes.“No, I wasn’t expecting it.”Her tone is measured, honest without giving too much.“But Chicago isn’t that big, and I knew the possibility existed since you live here in the city.”
That’s fair.
“And you?”she asks, shifting the focus without effort.“Were you expecting to run into me there?”
“No.”I cross my arms, turning to face her more.“I have questions.”
“I’m sure you do.”Her eyes narrow just a fraction.“That must be frustrating for you.”
A faint pull at the corner of my mouth.“You remember that too.”
“I remember a lot of things.”
That lands.Harder than it should.She steps back then, creating just enough space between us to shift the dynamic without breaking it.“Standing here probably isn’t the best place for this conversation.”
“No,” I agree.“I suppose it’s not.”
Another small pause.“If you want to catch up,” she offers, like it’s nothing more than a passing suggestion, “we can meet for drinks.”
An invitation.On her terms.I don’t answer immediately.Not because I’m unsure.But because I recognize what it is and I’m not used to be on the receiving end of it.“How about dinner?”
Her gaze holds mine, steady, unaffected.“Thursday works for me.”
“I can pick you up at seven?”I suggest in way of agreement.
“Something tells me I don’t need to share my address.”A slight incline of her head as she assesses me openly.
I blink in response, uncrossing my arms to rest one hand against the railing below the painting, hoping the fact that my heart just forgot how to work isn’t obvious to her.Another beat passes between us.
“I’ll see you Thursday, Hayden.”The words are simple.But they’re not light.Then she turns.No hesitation as she walks away without looking back, her pace steady, her posture unchanged, but everything around me feeling like it shifted.
I watch her until she disappears into the flow of the gallery, her movement unhurried as if nothing about the last few minutes requires a second thought.The space closes around her the same way it does everything else here; quietly, without disruption, until there’s no trace left but the shift she leaves behind.
My hand is still resting along the edge of the barrier in front of the painting.I hadn’t noticed.I straighten slowly as I release it, more aware now of the way the moment settled into something that didn’t move when it should have.Conversations resume around me.Footsteps pass.A low murmur of voices threads through the room, controlled and respectful, like nothing out of the ordinary has happened.
For everyone else, it hasn’t.I look back at the painting.It’s the exact same brushstrokes.
