Page 112 of Made Better Together

“I’m a completionist, so no complaints on my end. Come on.” I follow his lead as he moves at a faster pace through the next room of the American Art display.

We’re in the second-to-last exhibit when his phone buzzes. He checks it, and there’s a text notification I can read from my position standing next to him.

MOM: I’ve purchased my plane ticket to Orlando for Christmas.

A shiver rolls through his body.

“Everything okay?” I reflexively ask.

“Yeah…it’s just my mom in a family group chat she set up.”

“Oh, you can answer her if you need to.”

“No. Not now.” His voice is clipped, and he must notice my mouth twist, confused by his response. “I’m sorry. I just…I’ll tell you more about her, but not today? I want to keep it positive.” By the end, he sounds more like himself.

Now I’m curious more than anything, but don’t push the topic—a public museum isn’t a place for a conversation about family issues, anyway.

He seems to shake it off as we move to the final room in the American Art exhibit, which focuses on photographs. They’re largely black and white, but the pictures are more uplifting—like an overjoyed boy cheering on a baseball player. Once we’ve walked through it, he grabs my hand. “Done. Now to my favorite part.”

As he guides me to the Contemporary wing, the neutral and dark tones of the American Art section give way to a vibrant, colorful display. Connor comes alive once we start examining the pieces, pointing out different details. The part of him that fell in love with art as a teen, revealed.

After about an hour, moving slowly and admiring each piece, we reach a large landscape. It’s so striking that it takes over the final room in the Contemporary wing.

“You can see how she’s using color theory influences here,” he explains. “That began with the post-impressionists, but this is a modern take.”

We’re side by side, and he brushes the back of his hand against mine. Intentionally? I’m not sure, but tingles shoot up my arm.

“We haven’t even gotten to the impressionists yet in class.” The painting looks like a gorgeous mix of bold colors dotted into a seascape to me, but it’s neat to learn more from Connor.

He adjusts his glasses. “Oh yeah, you’ll study all of this. Color theory is basically applied science on display. The painters in that period began utilizing optical research to create art that leverages how our eyes process color.”

Dropping down from his frames, the back of his hand slides gently against mine again. This time, I reciprocate, pressing against his in return. “You’re hot when you’re showing off all that brain power.”

“Sorry.” He chuckles softly. “TMI on the art front.” He wraps his pinky around mine, tugging gently. It’s like we’re having one conversation with our minds, and a different one with our hands.

“No, it’s interesting. It’s kind of like your condo in here.” All the brightly colored, abstract pieces have a similar vibe to the art his brother’s collected.

Tug. “I can give you the backstory of all of those pieces too if you want,” he teases.

I want more touching, please. I bring my shoulder to his arm, encouraging him. “I’d be good with that. It’s nice to get to know Connor Battle, the Renaissance man.”

“Except I’ve never had creative talent like these artists.” His voice is faint as he glances down at where we’re connected.

“Mmmm.”

Eyes flicking over my face again, he grins. “But I have other talents. Come on.”

He walks me hand in hand through the exhibits. We pass a long, dark hallway, and he stops.

“Here,” he instructs, pulling me into the shadowy space.

“Are we going to another wine cellar?” I joke.

He laughs. “Afraid not.” Once we’re at the end of the hallway, he pins me against the wall, his hands pushing mine against the hard, cold concrete. “I needed to do this.”

His lips come down hard on mine, and I can barely breathe as he owns my mouth. The intensity of his attention is all-consuming, and when he adds to it by lining up our bodies, I whimper.

He rips his mouth away from mine. “Stay quiet, Eden.” His tone is playful, but firm.