He turned and looked at it thoughtfully. “The definition in her muscles.” The designer had used a blue-and-white photograph of the female dancer’s neck and collarbone, only adding a small amount of script across the top and the bottom so the viewer’s eye was drawn immediately to the picture.
“Exactly. The lines are phenomenal, and definitely make me think of power and strength, which is what dancing is all about, right?” I knew that much from watching Tilly for so many years. I checked out the designer’s name. “If Radhika Vij was here, I would shake her hand.”
The guy fumbled with his pockets and pulled out a tiny notebook, similar to the one Abby always had with her. His face took on a panicked look, brows knitted together in a straight line. He patted the pocket at his chest and gave up, sighing. “You don’t have a pen, do you? I want to write down what you just said.”
“Are you a reporter or something?” I quirked an eyebrow up, unsure if being quoted in the McIntosh Musings was a good idea for my anonymity.
He shook his head adamantly. His dark hair, closely cropped to his head, had a tight curl running through it. “No, no, not a chance. I’m crap at research. I liked your comments and didn’t want to forget them. They make sense to me.”
Before I could decide if he was for real or just handing me a line, I blushed. I’m not a blusher normally, but there was something in the way he said it, something honest, that made my cheeks light up. To distract myself, I stuck my hand down into the pocket of my messenger bag and came up with a lone pen that somehow hadn’t made it onto the table earlier. I handed it to him without looking at his face. “Here.”
He took it, and about a millimeter of my skin brushed against his, but it was enough to send a shiver of electricity up my arm. I jerked my arm back in shock, and maybe a little bit from fear of being so close to him—not that I’d admit that out loud. He looked up when I took my arm away, and confusion flashed in his eyes, now brighter with emotion. “Sorry,” he mumbled, and I blushed again, this time from embarrassment.
“No, I was, I mean, you, er . . . Oh, crud.” I trailed off, wishing I could cover myself with the performance posters and fade into the wall. He didn’t seem to notice my bumbling, as he was scribbling furiously in the notebook. I glanced over and saw my thoughts, word for word, entwined with his own. I looked a little more closely and read them aloud.
“Close up of body, maybe bow, rosin dust on the fingers,” I read slowly. “These are your notes to the artist?”
He nodded. “Kind of. I’m getting a jumpstart on my summer assignment for senior English. Due first day of school in the fall.” He looked at me quizzically. “Which you would know if you went here.”
I shrugged. “Just along for the ride today, I’m afraid.”
He nodded, and we moved on. We walked slowly, pausing at each piece of artwork, each installation, each small flat-screen broadcasting a clip of a performance. He asked my opinions and I gave them openly. I noticed as I spoke that he always looked me in the eye, always stayed in the moment with me, didn’t allow himself to be distracted by the people around us. If I was being honest with myself, he looked at me like I was actually there, which for me was a nice change of pace from feeling like persona non grata lately. It was also nice to have an intelligent conversation, or actually any conversation, that didn’t involve me being scolded or made to feel like the planet’s biggest human disappointment. I tried to keep the smiling to a minimum, so to not scare him off with my mega-wattage. I was enjoying myself so much that I didn’t even realize the guy had stopped walking; like inertia, I kept on moving, and my face met his chest. Like a brick wall.
“Ooof.” I stumbled backward less than gracefully, rubbing my nose. As I tried, unsuccessfully, to regain my balance, thrown off not only by the collision but by the rock hardness of his pectoral muscles, a pair of even stronger hands gripped my forearms and held me steady.
“You all right?” He released me gently once I was stable.
“Oh sure, nothing wounded but my pride.” I gave him a tight-lipped smile and crossed my arms, attempting to seem nonchalant, unfazed, when in reality every bone in my body was screaming to abort the mission. I scanned the room and noted Belén standing off to the side, phone attached to her fingers. “Hey, uh, I should probably get going, I see my ride looking like she’s had enough art for one night.” No need to mention who I was here with. He might have class with Tilly, and if he did, he might know about me, and frankly, I was content to leave things as they were. Better to be the semi-interesting girl who knows a little bit about aesthetics than Tilly’s black-sheep stepsister.
When I looked up, his eyes completely focused on me like no one else was in the room, I thought I detected something like disappointment on his face. He blinked it away and smiled, then handed the pen back and closed his notebook, holding it behind his back.
“Well, it was really nice talking to you. Refreshing, actually.”
This surprised me. “How do you mean?”
“Everyone around here is so caught up in themselves and trying to be the best. So they humor you and compliment your work, even if it sucks, because they’re afraid you might turn around and be just as honest with them. Artists have fragile egos, it seems.”
I put a hand on my hip and arched an eyebrow. “And you don’t?” I wondered what kind of artist he was.
He laughed out loud. “Oh, I have my moments of uncertainty.” At least he had a sense of humor about it. “It was nice to talk to a girl who isn’t afraid to say what’s on her mind. I appreciated the honesty.”
I snorted. It did not escape me that this random guy who didn’t know me from Adam thought I was great for doing exactly the thing my best friend hated me for—telling the truth. He tipped his head to the side, confused, and I replaced my smirk with a smile.
“Thanks for that, it’s nice to hear.” And I meant it. He just didn’t know how much or why.
I felt a chill and realized Belén was glaring at me, her almost-black eyes threatening to march herself over here and remind me that I was still being punished, which I’m sure meant no chatting with cute boys and looking like I was having fun of any kind.
I sighed. “I really need to go. It was nice talking to you too.”
Before he could say anything else—and I’m guessing he wanted to, since his jaw unhinged like he was getting ready to speak—I turned on my heels and fled the hall, then went out the front door and to the car. As I leaned against the rear passenger door and waited for Belén and Tilly to come back, I pulled out my phone and settled my weight on one foot, flipping through my contact list for someone to text with. When I scrolled past Ashlyn’s name, I clicked the power button and slid the phone back into my purse, then closed my eyes, wishing for something I knew wasn’t coming.
Chapter 5