Page 39 of Trick or Heat

Her words sound genuine, her tone airy and beautiful. I can’t help it as my gaze roams over her ethereal face.

She looks like she belongs in a fairy painting.

“It’s the only thing I’ve ever loved more than soccer. Soccer is discipline and hard work. Museums are the same, but there’s a whimsical quality to it that seems effortless. I want to do the hard work to give that effect to others just passing through.”

“Oh, so you’re an artist,” she says, and although it sounds teasing, there’s a hint of admiration.

“I guess that’s one way of looking at it,” I agree.

“What are you studying for that?” she asks curiously.

“Anthropology. There’s not many of us, but we all get a much better learning experience that way.”

She looks around the room, taking in all the long, wide paintings. When her eyes come back to mine, I inhale sharply. Even the barest of glances from her takes my breath away.

“Will you walk me through this museum’s story?”

My heart skips a beat. “I’d love to.”

From there, I begin to ramble about anything and everything we come across. It’s like word vomit that I can’t push back in because I’ve never been able to be so free with this stuff before. Most people aren’t interested, or just pretend to be, but she is so deliberate with the way she asks follow-up questions, points out little details, and makes her own comments on pieces of history.

When we come to one of my favorite paintings, we stop, and I let a soft smile curve at my lips.

“This is one of the first pieces I ever fell in love with.” I look over it for the millionth time, loving the warm colors and how carefree the women in the painting look.

Elsie’s eyes trail over it before looking down at the plaque beneath it. “How do you pronounce that?” she asks.

“‘Shakuntala.’”

“It’s beautiful,” she responds, her eyes darting to my lips. “This is one of the first paintings that made you fall in love with art?”

I nod. “It reminds me of the women in my family. Of our culture.”

She smiles, but her eyes are inquisitive. “Were your parents born here?”

“They were, but none of my grandparents were. All four of them came over from India around the same time, met and became friends. They had my parents, who grew up together, and the rest was history.”

Something flashes in her eyes. “That’s incredible. Have you been to India?”

“When I was a baby, my grandparents moved back to India. I go there all the time, and they visit occasionally.”

“I bet it’s a dream,” she says. “My grandparents are from Iceland, but not the pretty part. A really cold part that smells like fish.”

Her nearly white hair catches my attention. “Is Elsie short for something Icelandic, then?”

She shakes her head. “Nope, just Elsie. When I was younger, I wished it were more unique, but now I love it.”

I fiddle with my fingers, anxiety wracking me as I speak again.

“You know, you can always call me Rai,” I tell her. “If that’s easier for you.”

She pauses, thinking. “Does anyone else call you Rai?”

“My friends from high school would, besides Brodie and DJ. No one could really pronounce my name.”

Her lips turn into the cutest frown and her nose scrunches.

“They could have tried harder,” she responds. “I will call you by your name, Raivat.”