“No,” I moan. “You made me cry.” I pat my cheeks lightly, as if this will get rid of the possible tear streaks through my makeup. “Do I look terrible? Is my mascara running?”
He shakes his head. “No. You look so beautiful, Bee.” He runs his thumb over my cheek (this closeness burns me) and nods. “Your mascara is fine, and I’m sorry I made you cry.”
“It was beautiful. It was a good cry.” I laugh, a little shaky.
His smile touches only his mouth; his eyes are searching, uncertain. “I’m…um… I honestly don’t know what to say to that.”
I laugh. “Trust me, I love a good cry. I’m honored by what you said,” I whisper, not sure how else to tell him.
(What I say: I’m honored.) (What I want to say: I’m totally falling for you, you ridiculously wonderful boy.) He’s so obviously relieved by this that I laugh again. He lightly touches my shoulder. “Want to get some food? Or do you want to look at the art? I can introduce you to a few people, or we don’t have to, whatever…” He shrugs. “Up to you.”
“Food,” I say. “Definitely food.”
Five minutes later I’m holding a plate piled high with a sandwich and salad. I’m too jittery to sit down, so we wander among the paintings. They are beautiful, masterfully crafted, the different styles and colors calling to different parts of me. I find one toward the back of two ballerinas in dark red tutus, wrapping their laces. It’s close to an impressionist style, but with a touch of modernism I can’t quite place. “Levi, this is beautiful.”
He smiles. “Patrick is one of our regular donators and a personal favorite among these artists.”
“He’s already my favorite and I’m not even halfway through.”
“If you like this one, let me show you something.” He takes my arm as if he’s about to lead me onward, but then stops, and stands very still.
His eyes, I discover, are focused on a man. He’s holding a glass of wine and flanked by two women showing so much boob that I’m afraid of accidentally seeing a nipple. I focus on the man instead, going cold when I realize how much he looks like Levi, but twenty-something years older, silver streaking his hair. His suit is fine, a dark shade of gray, almost black. The shirt beneath is red, making him look exotic with a dash of pompous.
“Levi, is that your dad?”
He groans. “Yeah. Let’s go.”
But Mr. Orville spots us—he’s looking right at me—and smiles broadly. He’s insanely handsome, the type of man you realize will always be gorgeous, no matter his age, like Brad Pitt or Jon Hamm or Hugh Jackman.
Mr. Orville pats Levi’s shoulder. I want to smile at him, to make myself approachable, but I don’t like his eyes, how cold they are, how…devouring.
And then he says, “The event turned out, son.”
Turned out how? I think. How about amazing? Or fabulous? Or extremely wonderful? How about, “You’re an excellent young man, and I’m proud of you.” A scowl threatens my lips when Mr. Orville turns to me, but I manage to turn it into a smile. (I hope.) “I’m Bee,” I say, shaking his hand. His palm is dry, but his touch makes me want to shrink back. I don’t like how he’s looking at me.
“Bee, the famous Bee? The one I keep hearing all about?”
The fact that Levi has talked about me to his dad, the dad he doesn’t even like, makes me panic. Of course, I remind myself, he did just tell an entire fundraising event about me. So. There’s that.
“I…guess that’s me,” I say. “Nice to meet you.” (I hope I sound convincing.) “You like art?” he asks.
“I love it,” I say, “although I can’t draw or paint or sketch to save my life.”
“Let’s hope it doesn’t come down to that.” Mr. Orville pats his stomach. “I think I’m going to take advantage of the food now. Nice chatting.”
He’s gone before I can say another word to him.
I turn to Levi, mouth agape. He runs a hand through his hair nervously, messing with it the way I like best. “Before you say anything,” I say, “I must admit that, to the naked eye, he is charming.”
“Sure,” Levi replies, practically spitting. “And he’d like to charm the pants off every girl here. I mean that literally.”
I sputter a laugh. “That’s a terrible thing to say.”
“Sometimes true things are terrible. I choose to ignore him.” He turns his back to his father, putting one hand on my shoulder and nudging me forward. “See? Totally ignoring him flirting with one of our artists. Look at me, I’m a pro.”
Laughing, I step out of the way of two men covering the nearest painting with a sheet. They carry it off, weaving through the crowd. Inside the auditorium, a man calls everyone back to their seats.
Levi grabs my hand. “This is my favorite part. Sit with me?”
If I were bold and witty, I’d say something fabulous. Something Marilyn Monroe would be proud of. Something flirtatious and irresistible. But because I’m just Bee (who thinks of witty things to say after the moment’s gone), I answer with, “Oh, sure.”
It turns out this is when they announce the winning bidders. Someone brings the paintings on stage, one by one, and the man with the microphone announces each winner and the amount donated. I become a little lost in all the large numbers—thousands of dollars are being donated by the second. I’m thankful for the distraction when Levi reaches over…and grabs my hand.
It’s an unobtrusive move on his part, but every inch of me is aware of him, and in a moment of happy panic I squeeze his hand. He leans in close to me, his shoulder meeting mine, and whispers (very close to my ear), “Do you have a pen?”
I want to ask why, but it’s too quiet in the auditorium, so I grab a pen from my purse. I think he’s going to, I don’t know, write a check or something. But then he grabs my hand, bends over my open palm, and begins to etch ink onto my skin.
It startles me, but I don’t move away, even though I have no idea what he’s doing. (I immediately realize I don’t care.) After a few minutes, when my palm itches from the ink, he turns my hand over and starts writing on the back. I don’t do anything, say anything; I don’t move or even let out the breath that I’m holding. I realize that he hasn’t looked up in minutes, hasn’t laughed at a single joke made from the announcer on stage, hasn’t clapped at all.
I keep my face forward, not daring to look down, not ready to be surprised by whatever it is. I don’t look down when he’s finished, when he sits back and drops the pen into my purse. I don’t even look down when the fundraiser comes to a close and we walk outside. I wait until I’m in my car and Levi’s in his and we’re ready to drive to the wedding.
I start the car first, taking a second to breathe in deep. Then I hold up my hand, the back of it tattooed in swirly, looping designs, and small, even letters that are so Levi.
Songs that remind me of you.
I whimper, turning my hand to see the palm. The list is short, three songs, but I cannot breathe from happiness.
Harbour Lights
Anastasia