“I can do it later. As for my back, it’s itchy and tight, but fine otherwise,” she said slowly.
“Why don’t you get dressed, then?” I suggested, relieved. “Only if you want to, though.”
The smile that lit up her face made me feel both awesome and shitty. I should have thought to do this sooner.
“Okay!” She jumped up off the couch and practically skipped to the bedroom.
While she changed, I tidied up. Twenty minutes later she reappeared in a gray shirtdress and purple tights. She’d put on makeup, which wasn’t necessary, because she was gorgeous without it.
I helped her into her coat, being extra careful as she slipped her arms through, and rested it on her shoulders. While the tattoo was healing nicely, it would still be tender for a little longer. We walked across the street and headed through my building to the underground parking lot so I could get my car. She’d offered to take hers, but I’d declined. I was taking her out, not the other way around. Her car also sucked, but I wouldn’t tell her that. I didn’t really have much of a plan in mind until I started heading toward the Chicago Harbor.
“The Art Institute?” Tenley asked when I pulled into the parking lot.
“Is that okay? We can go somewhere else if you want,” I said, suddenly unsure.
I’d never done the date thing. Unless I counted that one time during senior year that I took a girl to a drive-in. I couldn’t remember her name, or the movie we saw, but I had a very vivid recollection of the blow job and her excessive use of teeth. It was before my parents were murdered. Afterward, dating hadn’t been a priority.
“No, no. This is great. I haven’t been to a museum in ages.”
“Me either.” I cut the engine and hustled around to her side, opening the door before she had the chance. She got out gingerly, likely because her back was still sore. She smiled up at me, all cute and unassuming and beautiful as I laced my fingers through hers.
“My mom used to take me here when I was a kid,” I said, holding the door open for her and ushering her into the foyer.
“Really? Is that where you got your artistic side from?”
“My mom was more about sculpture, but yeah, she was the one who exposed me to this kind of thing. My dad wasn’t much for art, or anything that didn’t involve stocks, really, so I got to go with her when there were exhibits she liked,” I replied as we reached the concession desk.
Tenley tried to pay for herself, but I handed over my credit card. I grabbed one of the brochures so we could plan out what exhibits we wanted to see and in what order.
“When were you here last?” Tenley asked as we headed for the photography exhibit.
I thought about it a minute, trying to remember the last time my mom took me. “The summer before junior year? So almost ten years ago? We usually went at least once a year. But the summer before senior year I told her I didn’t want to go. She went on her own. I felt like shit about it afterwards.”
Tenley squeezed my hand. “You must miss her.”
“Yeah. All the time.” I looked down at her, glad I had someone I could do this kind of thing with again.
“Does it get easier?” she whispered.
“I don’t know. I mean, I guess in some ways? It’s been seven years, so I’m used to not having her around, but I don’t know if the pain ever really goes away. I think you just learn how to deal with it. That probably isn’t what you want to hear.” I smiled sadly and brushed her cheek with my fingers. “But I have you now, so that helps.”
“Really?”
“Definitely.” I leaned down and gave her a lingering kiss, heedless of our public venue. “Come on, let’s check out some art.”
Tenley in a museum was a trip. She loved the modern exhibits, drawn just like I was to the darker pieces. Occasionally, when I was taking too long or she wanted to move on to the next painting, she would lean into me, rub her boobs on my arm, and whisper, “How long before we can stare at the next one?”
I stood behind her with my hand on her hip as she contemplated Wood’s American Gothic. “Wonder what she’s thinking?”
Tenley pressed a finger thoughtfully to her lips before she turned her head, looking up at me with a grave seriousness. “Probably something along the lines of ‘How much longer do I have to stand here baking in the sun looking pissed off?’?”
I snickered. “What’s he thinking?”
She crooked her finger. When I bent down, putting my ear to her mouth, she whispered, “?‘My balls are sweaty.’?”
I burst into laughter, scaring a bohemian couple two paintings to the right. They shot me a dirty look, and Tenley broke into a fit of giggles.
I led her to the next exhibit. “So was your mom or dad the artistic one?”