“Thank you,” she said.
“It really was my pleasure.” I liked that I’d spent money on her.
“Ultimate bliss?” she asked. “What does it mean? You didn’t say.” She looked up at me as we began to walk north.
I shoved my hands into my pockets. It just fit her—as if it were meant for her. “It’s from a book.”
“You’re quite the reader,” she said. “Is it the same book that you got your quote from?” she asked.
I nodded. “It is, actually. From the same passage, even. You said you wanted me to choose and for it to be like mine.” As I said the words out loud, I realized our two tattoos bound us forever in a way, even though I spent a lot of effort on making sure I didn’t have any ties. She’d always have my choice on her skin. I ran my hand through my hair. Perhaps I should have chosen something less important to me.
“I like it,” she replied. She seemed genuinely pleased. It wasn’t the reaction of a princess at all. Maybe being connected to her like that wasn’t so bad.
The sounds of the city filled the silence between us as we walked, to where, I had no idea.
“You’re not going to tell me which book?” she finally asked.
“The Count of Monte Cristo,” I replied. I didn’t want to tell her how that book was the story I’d clung to in foster care. Or that it had given me some glimmer of hope that things would eventually get better.
As if she knew I couldn’t give it, she didn’t push for more of an explanation.
“You’ll tell me more. Soon,” she said.
I wasn’t sure if it was a question or not but I glanced across at her and nodded.
“You look beautiful,” I said to Grace as she locked the door to the gallery while I waited on the sidewalk.
I’d chosen my suit carefully that morning. And I’d made sure I was on time to pick Grace up. I knew going to the exhibition this evening was a job for her, but for me tonight was about spending time with her. Was this what dating felt like?
“Thank you, Sam Shaw.” She looked at me from under her eyelashes and her cheeks pinked a little in a way where I wanted to reach out and feel their heat. “We’ll walk. It’s just a block from here.”
I stuffed my hands into my pockets to stop myself from reaching for her as we started off along the street.
“How’s your tattoo?” I asked.
“Actually, it’s kinda great. The redness is gone. From a distance, you can’t see it at all, but then as you look closer, it almost seems to reveal itself in layers. First you see it’s writing, then you read it, then you understand it.”
God, I really liked the way she saw the world. I really liked her.
“You know what I mean?” she asked, beaming up at me. Every time she smiled I had to resist an urge to kiss her.
I nodded, but didn’t say anything. I wanted her to keep talking. I wanted to know more about her.
“I’m reading your book. I hope you don’t mind,” she said, her eyes fixed ahead of her. The street was busy with people pulling down roller shutters and walking to the subway, but we existed in a bubble, where it remained calm and peaceful and all the noise and activity was separate from us.
“My book?”
“The Count of Monte Cristo.”
“Oh.” I swallowed. She was reading it. “It’s not my book, Princess.” It wasn’t like I had ownership over it or anything.
“Maybe it’s not. Maybe it is.”
Maybe? I wasn’t following her. It wasn’t my book—millions of people had read that book.
“I’ve never read it before,” she said. “I kind of knew of the story—the young man, falsely imprisoned for a crime he didn’t commit—that he fights to survive, to escape.” She squeezed my hand. “Reading it, I understand why you like it.”
Before I had a chance to ask her what she meant, we’d arrived.
“Here we are.” She nodded at a group of people at the entrance of a store. “This is us. If you don’t like it, we can leave. Just let me know.”
The place was full of people and their clothes seemed to be unusually bright. Perhaps I was just used to suits. People gripped drinks in jam jars, as they talked animatedly and periodically glanced at the walls. The guests were much younger than at the auction, although the glasses and moustaches were similar. It was a far cry from the auction and that smell of old money.
“It’s quite the crowd, isn’t it?” Grace looked up at me as we made our way toward the back of the gallery. I placed my arm around her waist to keep her close.
“Popular guy, I guess,” I replied.
“Yeah. Buyers will be put off, though. Someone lost control of the guest list, but that could be good for us. Plenty of pieces without red dots.”
“Isn’t more people good for sales?”
“Only if they’re here to buy rather than take advantage of the free bar.”
“What do you think?” She spun around three hundred sixty degrees and faced me. “Just give me your gut instinct.”
I scanned the room. The paintings had an industrial feel to them. They were masculine and looked like they could have been set pieces from Alien or The Matrix, lots of black and dark green and dark blue. I tried to pick one out from another but they all seemed quite similar. They didn’t seem like Grace’s taste. “You like them?” I didn’t like to say that it seemed like a case of the emperor’s new clothes. How hard could painting like this be? I was pretty sure if someone handed me a paintbrush and a canvas I could come up with something that wasn’t too different.
“Let’s take a closer look,” she said instead of answering. We moved toward one of the smaller pieces surrounded by fewer people. She stared at the canvass intently, first close up, her long neck straining forward and then stepping backward, her head tipping from one side to the other. To see how it would look on a wall? I should have been looking at the painting, but all I could concentrate on was Grace and the way each of her movements were so uncensored but they still showed her body off as if she were being photographed.
“I don’t feel it,” she said, clutching her fist at her stomach. “I think maybe I should, but I don’t. Do you?”
What was I supposed to be feeling? “I don’t think so,” I replied honestly.
“You know when you saw the Lautrec? How did that feel?” she asked.
I tried to think back. “I thought they were colorful and clean and . . . straightforward. They weren’t trying to be anything they weren’t.”
She laughed and I cleared by throat, wanting to cover up my embarrassment. “No,” she said, grabbing my arm with her two hands. “That’s good. I’m laughing because you’re describing everything these paintings aren’t. And I agree with you.” She squeezed my arm and the sparkle in her eyes relaxed me. “But even if I didn’t agree with you, you’re allowed to like art for whatever reason you like it. Don’t ever feel judged.”
I twisted the arm she was gripping and took hold of her hand, wanting to keep her close.
“But now we’re here, let’s try those over there,” she said, looking over the heads of the crowd at some paintings on the other side of the room.