Page 61 of This is a Kissing Book

I scratch my temple like she just asked a riddle. I don’t know a ton about Juliana Lindley, but the woman is clever, quirky, and I’m convinced that her lips are better than birthday cake.

Me: Is this a trick question or are you going to determine my value as a friend based on my answer?

Jules: I’m trying to settle a debate with my neighbors.

Me: Now?

Jules: Every night, they argue from the other side of the wall. I’m the designated judge, but don’t take legal advice from me. That’s my disclaimer.

I chuckle, surprised, but not by her response.

Me: Yes, I like popcorn, but my teeth are tightly spaced, so I prefer not to eat it because the little kernel things get caught and drive me crazy until I floss.

Jules: Thank goodness you floss. If you didn’t, that would mean we couldn’t be friends.

I can’t tell whether she’s serious, but I do have exceptional dental hygiene. Thanks, Mom.

Jules: Okay, so the real question is thus: salted butter or butter and salt?

How is this a question? Do married couples really fight over things like this? Also, she used the word thus. That’s so Jules. I reply in kind.

Me: The latter, obviously.

Jules: I will inform Screechy and Grumbly of our findings. Also, do you want to meet?

In the month or so that Jules and I have known each other, I’ve come to be prepared to expect her to say anything. But this catches me off guard. Before thinking, I answer.

Me: Now?

Jules: I know it’s late, but I’ve been researching. Found something you need to see.

Me: Where?

Jules: The 24-hour laundromat near my place. I still have your hoodie. I’ll drop you the address. Meet me there?

A laundromat. At midnight. Most women I’ve dated would suggest meeting at a trendy bar or an exclusive club. Jules wants to meet where people wash their underwear when they should be sleeping.

It’s so perfectly Jules.

The place is empty when I arrive, just Jules sitting cross-legged on top of a wide table, laptop balanced on her knees. She’s wearing black denim shorts, a tank top, and low-top Converse sneakers. It’s a contrast to her work attire and her more formal outfit from the gallery. She’s a prism, a jewel and I’m seeing another one of her facets. Her hair is in a messy bun with a pencil stuck through it.

“Fancy meeting you here,” I say, sliding onto the laundry folding table next to her.

She grins. “I figured if we’re going to discuss potentially illegal activities, we should do it somewhere no one would expect to find an Andresen.”

My eyebrows shoot upward. “Illegal activities?”

“I’ll get to that.” She angles her laptop screen toward me. “First, look at this.”

The screen shows a detailed analysis of the painting we saw at the gallery, broken down into sections with notes in bold.

“I’ve been staring at these photos for hours and I keep coming back to the same conclusion. I don’t think there is just one painting.”

24

LINC

“What do you mean you don’t think there is just one painting?” I ask Juliana.