Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
HAPPILY EVER BEFORE
Will
Unfuckingbelievable. I laugh my way back up to my office to grab a couple of things. My laptop, a couple reference books, a Museum Geek t-shirt, and a breath mint for good measure. The tour ended and I answered a few of the additional questions from other guests as she stood off to the side. It looked like she was deciding what to do, but I saw her stomp off towards the gallery where I said to meet on a mission.
I've been contradicted on tours before, usually the arrogant professor who doesn't like a modern interpretation or some young kid trying to be funny. This wasn't the first and certainly won't be the last time. It comes with the territory when you're part art historian and part performance artist. I'm pretty sure that's what it said on the job description. But this was different. This was the first time I've ever wanted to be wrong, or, more accurately, the first time I've wanted someone else to be right so badly I could taste it with every word she shot my way.
By the end of the tour, she'd transformed from potential troublemaker to the most engaged participant I've ever encountered. Her questions weren't just smart, they were sharpened to cut deeper, to challenge the narrative I've gotten comfortable presenting. The audience is usually interested in the more superficial anecdotes, not her.
She wasn't subtle in the back of the crowd, but it was bold to jump in and think I wouldn't notice her. Then again, I don't think she noticed me with the same memory. To be fair, the last time I wasn't usually the one on the receiving end, but the memory is still seared into my brain in a way that made her immediately recognizable.
Spring semester, 2008, Art History 201: Histories of the Renaissance and Baroque.
She always took the same seat, perfectly positioned near the front of the class while I was always the complete diagonal in the back. I spent most of that term with a better view of the back of her head than I did the searing look she gave me today.
I'm not sure that it was intentional or if she just accidentally found herself in the middle of a tour ready to go toe-to-toe before just totally fucking stealing the tour.
I don't think she has any realization that we know each other. Know is a stretch, but that semester I spent weeks watching this woman whirlwind her way around every other person in the class, myself included, and occasionally the professor. Then as the fates would have it, to just never have another class with her again.
Fates are funny things.
The glass gallery awaits. Complete contrast to the rest of the space. This is the most modern addition of the museum, different from the deep tones and ornate frames. This space is far more industrial, cleaner, meant to showcase the items hung here as well as the people who spent the money to be immortalized by it. Trust me, I know.
There she is. Sitting on the bench staring up at one of my favorites. Most people don't know the history of this place, and the woman behind it who bought art in a way Boston society frowned upon, but left this incredible legacy. It is the story behind what hangs in every gold frame, and even the frames that hold nothing, that is the most moving.
Her shoulders drop ever so slightly and the fierceness on her face fades to fragility as she tilts her chin up to allow herself the space to absorb the painting in front of her.
She isn't dressed like this was her intended day plan, much more like she escaped an office like the one I'm constantly pushed towards. But you know what they say about intentions. The road to hell is paved with good ones. Looking at her in this light, I don't have any problem with that being the destination.
I take a seat next to her on the wooden bench. The same one I lay across some mornings when I get here before the world wakes up. I just exist in this space and think about all the people who have sat here before us. Now I can add us to that list.
"Here, I marked the page for you." I hand her one of the reference books I brought down and she starts flipping to the tabbed page. The book looks heavy on her lap, but her long fingers flutter through the pages like someone playing an impossible instrument racing against some internal clock. She reads as if she's starving, as if knowledge is a competition she's determined to win. Meanwhile, I open the laptop to pull up some digitized images.
"I am right!" She taps her finger on the page, exactly why I brought it down. "I knew it! I have this book!" Her face pinches slightly, and juts her head back before closing the book cover to read the title and confirm what I knew when I saw her. "Wait, I have this book."
Of course she does. It's a college course book from years ago. Figured it might jog her memory, also the reason she felt so adamant about her answer.
The book only distracted her momentarily as she put the pieces together. I can tell she is trying not-so-discreetly to place me.
"Check this out," I say, quickly pulling her attention to the laptop. "You see here? I would bet this is why you were misinformed. That book quotes an interpretation that has been widely referenced for years by professors in colleges in this very city, can you believe it?" The hint of taunt in my voice draws her closer, like a fencer advancing for the perfect strike. I see the moment that all the pieces are falling into place.
"Can I see that?" She reaches across with no regard for the way our bodies are closer than makes sense. She just focused, zooming in and scanning the rest of the images, to confirm upon closer I said. Her arm is pressed against mine and be it the smell of her laundry detergent, her shampoo, or just her, it fills the smallest crevices left between us.
"Fine," she says as she shuts the laptop and book simultaneously. "We're both right."
Straightening back up and facing me dead on. I could give it to her, the compromise but why would I settle when clearly she is getting off on the thrill as much as I am.
"No, this time, I'm right." I shake my head slowly, and her lips pop open with a sense of disbelief.
Despite the vast space, we're so close that I can feel the vibrations of her skin against mine as she moves to parry my argument with one of her own.
"But don't you think because–," she begins.
"I think that maybe, at least this once, you'll have to take the loss and admit I am right." My tone is playful knowing she has no interest in backing down.
"I'll admit you give a decent tour, but that's about it."
"I've been called a lot of things in my life, decent isn't one of them."
I can see it, when she quirks a smile pulled from the corner of her mouth, and changes tactics.
"Do you practice those little speeches of yours in the mirror? Complete with hand gestures?" Her hands wave like she's trying to mimic me earlier, but in fact it looks more like her long fingers are attempting to cast a spell. And with every flick it's working.
"Only on Tuesdays. The rest of the week, I practice looking disapprovingly at irreverent museum-goers."
"Ouch, is that what I am? Irreverent ?" Her hand reaches for pearls to clutch that aren't there, but the dramatics make me smile all the same.
"There is nothing irreverent about you, Arden."
Her eyes are locked on mine. I won't tell her how easy it was for me to recall her name once she was there tearing down the tour I deliver multiple times a day with a full audience. But neither of us is willing to admit directly that this isn't the first time we've been in each other's orbit.
"Sterling!" The voice refracts off the wall of windows. Slicing right through our conversation.
"Good, good! You're still here. There's a donor who's just arrived, and despite advising that there are no more tours for the evening, you know how they can be…" I sigh, both because I don't want to leave the conversation, but also because I do know exactly how they can be. I also know the likelihood that my last name has some benefit to being the one that walks them through the museum. Surely about to result in numerous versions of 'I saw your father for golf last week' or 'give our love to your mother.'
"I can take them, but I have plans, so I won't have long." He nods emphatically and scampers off. Thankful that he won't be the one required to make forty-five minutes of small talk with someone who could have him fired out of boredom. He's a small, anxious man, and having all the education to justify his title but none of the nepotism, means this task is always left up to me. Because I have both.
I stand gathering my things, acutely aware that Arden has done the same. Taking it as her cue to make her own exit. Brushing her hands down her dress as she stands and tucking her hair behind her ears I can see her face even more clearly now.
"Well, Will Sterling," she says with emphasis through a victorious smirk. "I appreciate the over-intellectualized Art History 201 lesson, but I better get going."
"Have coffee with me. I'll even tell you all about the great art heist," I say, watching the most imperceptible smile try to contain itself.
"Are you asking me out after trying to prove me wrong?" Her eyes drop ever so slightly before meeting mine again, and there's a visible pull toward saying yes written all over her face, but something else too.
"Is it working?"
"Not really, plus I've already heard a decent version of that story." She emphasizes 'decent' in a way that makes me want to prove her wrong about everything.
The museum is nearly empty now leaving our voices to echo slightly in the hall. My fingers brush hers as I hand over a Museum Geek shirt, a peace offering of sorts, and that simple touch sends electricity up my arm.
"Consider it encouragement to come back for another tour. Maybe next time you'll actually sign up and I can save you a spot at the front."
"Careful, next time I might actually ruin your credibility." She takes the shirt, her fingertips lingering against the fabric and I imagine how they would feel against my back.
"Worth it," I say.
For a moment, I forget about every masterpiece I've spent years studying. I just let myself appreciate this unexpected one standing in front of me, more enthralled with the brushstrokes of her mind and the theory of her eyes.
"You know, in Europa's time, it would have been a cup of wine, not coffee," she counters.
Wine, coffee, fuck it, we can fight our way through the post-impressionists and drink absinthe, all sounds good to me.
"True, but I find coffee leads to fewer tragic endings," I say instead, wondering if she can hear the hope in my voice.
"That's what you think." There's something in her tone there, vulnerability leaking through like pentimento showing through the layers.
"Then just come back and fight with me some time."
"Surprisingly tempting," she replies, "but I'm not available."