“Why now?”
I frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Your mother’s been trying to set us up for months,” she said. “And you’ve been… polite. But distant. And then suddenly youcall me out of nowhere and ask me to dinner.” She tilted her head. “So, what changed?”
I should have lied.
Should have said something easy, something that would keep the evening light and uncomplicated.
But I didn’t.
“I needed a reminder,” I said.
“Of what?”
“That there are other options.”
Her expression didn’t change, but something flickered in her eyes—understanding, maybe. Or recognition.
“Other options,” she repeated slowly. “For what?”
I didn’t answer.
She studied me for a long moment, then leaned back in her chair.
“You’re complicated, Amai Landry,” she said.
“Is that a problem?”
“No.” She smiled. “I like complicated.”
The gallery was in the Warehouse District—a converted industrial space with exposed brick and high ceilings, filled with abstract paintings that looked like controlled chaos.
Alexis moved through the space with ease, stopping in front of each piece, reading the plaques and asking questions I didn’t have answers to.
I stayed close.
Closer than I needed to.
At one point, she stopped in front of a massive canvas—reds and blacks swirling together like fire and smoke—and I stepped up behind her.
My chest brushed her back.
She didn’t move away.
I let my hands settle on her waist, light but deliberate, and felt her breath catch.
“What do you think?” she asked, her voice quieter.
“About the painting?”
“Yeah.”
I leaned in slightly, my mouth close to her ear.
“I think it’s angry,” I said. “And beautiful.”
She turned her head just enough that I could see her profile, the curve of her jaw, the way her lips parted slightly.
