26. A Little Impulsivity
Chapter 26
A Little Impulsivity
Bonnie
The only sounds in the museum are the low murmur of voices and the herringbone wood creaking beneath Rafe’s and my thumping boots. We’re beyond underdressed for this. I’m in my oversize crochet cardigan and ratty jeans, streaked with paint. He’s in his own variation of painting clothes with black pants, frayed at the fringes, and a gray T-shirt, smudged at the hem with charcoal pencil. We barely made it through the front doors with an hour to spare, so the dress code is the least of our concerns.
I have my arms crossed over my chest, not wanting to touch anything, just in case I leave fingerprints on any pristine surface. The cream walls and shiny glass are delicate, just like my relationship with Rafe. He’s a piece of art in his own right.
Rafe saunters through the room with his hands in his pockets, passing art in gold frames with decorative filigree. His eyebrows are furrowed inward with a tense jawline as he examines each piece in detail.
I’ve been to museums with my brothers before. They’re the type of men to nod with a bottom lip out and say, Yep, looks like art , before continuing on to the next room.
I’m always falling behind, reading the info placards. Not today though. Rafe reads them too.
We make our way from room to room, passing through the columns bracketing the threshold. Our boots now squeak over the marble floor. This room’s walls are coated in sanguine-red wallpaper. Chandeliers hang overhead.
I’ve been here many times for art history classes. They make us ID certain pieces and memorize them for tests. But coming here without an agenda is far more interesting. Freeing. But everything with Rafe has felt that way.
I take a seat on a padded wooden bench, pausing to admire busts surrounded by glass cases on tall pedestals. Rafe takes the seat next to me, letting his arm fall on the back of the bench and over my shoulders.
Here, he’s touching me so casually. Cautious though. But with what, I don’t know.
We haven’t had any additional lessons since the concert. Not the fun ones at least. It’s only been a few days, but that’s a lot of time for me to anticipate being touched and not get any payoff.
Is he suddenly playing games?
He demands we be exclusive, but now … nothing?
Well, nothing except small touches anyway. His large palm spreads over my knee, squeezing, flexing the veins over the back of his hand and shifting the thick ring on his index finger.
The more time I spend with him, the more I see of him. The more I notice how twitchy he can be when he’s stressed.
I look around at the other people. There aren’t a lot; we’re definitely pushing our luck, staying here so close to closing time. But a couple or two trail past. It’d be a perfect date night. Rafe even bought my ticket, but he claimed it was another business expense.
“Thanks, by the way,” I whisper, my voice barely a hum in the large room.
Rafe leans closer. My shoulder brushes against his chest. His thumb traces along my knee.
“For what?” he murmurs back.
His cedar scent is mixed with the stale smoke from the cigarette he lit outside. I got a head start on the museum while he was out there. He wouldn’t let me go with him. He said he didn’t want me to get any remnants of the smoke. But I don’t mind. There’s something oddly comforting about it. Maybe it’s because it’s so distinctly him.
“For paying for my ticket,” I say. “Thanks.”
He pats my leg and pulls away. “It’s nothing.”
But it sure feels like something.
I open my mouth to joke about it—that maybe we are on a date and, ha-ha, how funny would that be?
But before I can say anything, Rafe grins.
“Tell me about them,” he whispers.
“Who?”
He knocks his chin to the corner. I follow his eyesight toward the far end of the hall, where two people stand side by side, holding hands.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
Rafe crosses one leg over the other, resting his ankle against his knee. Shoestrings wrap around his black boot before securing to a double knot at the tongue. Little specks of orange acrylic dot the toe.
“Well,” he muses, “you collect souls?—”
“Stories.”
“So, what is theirs?”
I squint my eyes at them. If they weren’t reluctantly holding hands, I might think they were siblings. There’s a lot of animosity between them. Distance.
I shrug. “Easy. They’re a couple of days from a breakup.”
He snorts. “Depressing.”
“Couple hours maybe.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Well, it’s the way he’s holding her hand. See how loose his palm is? Her fingers wrap around his fully, but he’s barely holding on.”
Rafe tilts his head toward me. “You’re basing their relationship demise on his hands?”
I pinch my lips to the side. “Fine. Let’s see … what else? Ah, there. He also keeps looking at her for longer than he should.”
“Isn’t that a good thing?”
“Shh. No. Watch.”
As if on cue, the woman turns to peruse the next room. The man lets his loose hand be dragged forward as he watches the back of her head with his mouth in a solid line.
“He’s waiting to see how much longer he needs to endure this before he can go home,” I whisper.
“Or he just wants to watch a baseball game.”
“Did you see her eyes? Her makeup is messy, like she’s been crying. And his shirt is untucked. He clearly doesn’t care about his appearance anymore. And!” I say, raising a finger in the air, as if making a final point, causing Rafe to tongue his cheek and hold in laughter. “Insult to injury: that shirt is too nice, so I bet she picked it out for him. When people don’t appreciate gifts anymore, it’s over. There. Breakup central.”
“Maybe he’s just not a gift kinda guy.”
“ All men like when their girlfriends pick things out for them,” I insist.
“And you say that from what experience?”
I gasp, mock offended. He grins.
“Lulu told me,” I say.
“Did she now?”
“Yes. She says men like getting things picked out for them. Period. And if they say they don’t, they’re an ass.”
Rafe smirks. “Well, decent analysis, but I think you’re missing a key detail, Clever Girl.”
“And what’s that?”
“His zipper is also undone. I think maybe they had a quickie in the bathroom and just don’t want people to find out.”
I narrow my eyes, searching, and the moment the man turns, Rafe is right.
I bark out a laugh, covering my mouth with my hand. The sound echoes through the hall, making a couple of people—including the guilty couple—turn to look. Rafe grins, shushing me.
“Oh my God,” I whisper.
“It could be either one though,” he murmurs.
“Boy, they’ve got the right idea though, don’t they?” I tease.
He snorts. “You exhibitionist, you.” He casually rubs my shoulder with the hand slung behind me on the back of the bench.
I take a chance and lean my head down to rest on him. He tenses, but doesn’t move. It’s dangerous territory to journey down, but I wonder if he takes real dates here. Would he be so stiff with them?
“Do you come here often?” I ask him.
“Are you trying to pick me up?” he jokes.
I bite my bottom lip and laugh. “No. Seriously. Do you?”
“Not usually. I don’t come to Boston all that often, honestly. I haven’t in a while. You?”
“Sometimes. For school. But outside of that, no. My family doesn’t like it much.” I sigh. “I love my family, but sometimes, we’re all just so different.”
“Is that bad?” he asks.
“No. I just … well, I’m not married. I don’t have kids. I’m definitely not pregnant either.”
“Does that matter?”
“Feels important.”
“But do you want all that?”
I shrug. “Not sure. I don’t know if I like kids. Don’t get me wrong; I love my family. I wouldn’t trade them for the world. But I don’t know if I want more of that chaos. I don’t think anyway … I’m not sure. Maybe I’ll just be the art aunt.”
He chuckles. “Art aunt sounds kinda cool though.”
“Doesn’t it?”
“You’re twenty-one,” he says. “You don’t need to know any of that stuff yet anyway.”
“Does it bother you that I don’t have it all together?”
“You always ask questions like that, as if it matters.”
“Doesn’t it?”
“No. Because I’m almost thirty and I’m still figuring my life out. It never really stops.”
“I think you’ve got things figured out pretty well.”
He slides his palm over my knee again, and my heart pounds.
“Yeah. It’s not so bad right now.”
I could sit here forever, feeling his hands stroke over me in something like a date yet not. But an announcement over the speaker says they’re closing soon, so Rafe pats my thigh before standing, and the moment is broken.
We stop by the gift shop on our way out, at my insistence, sorting through cheap notebooks and cheesy T-shirts. I find a beige apron with a giant color wheel on it.
“Maybe this’ll help me remember,” I joke.
Rafe takes the apron from me and drops it onto the checkout counter.
“I’m kidding!” I say with more laughter.
“I’m not,” he says. “Maybe it would help you,” he says, tossing me a sly smile while grabbing an MFA Boston baseball cap.
“Is that for you?” I tease.
“No, I’m making you and Leo hat people on principle,” he whispers with a wink.
Goose bumps explode over my arms. That’s downright criminal. I don’t know if a man has ever winked at me, but I don’t think any future man could do it justice after Rafe.
As the employee rings him up—quickly because she’s absolutely upset we’re here so late, and I can’t blame her—I distract myself by searching through the ring box on the counter. There’s a small line of them made from wire or cast in various metals. I fiddle with a beautiful silver piece, casually spinning it around before placing it on my pinkie, then my middle finger, then my thumb. It’s too big for me on all accounts.
I reach over, grab Rafe’s hand, and slide it onto his middle finger.
“Perfect fit,” I say with a smile.
He snorts. “You’re picking this out for me?”
“Seems like your style.”
Without a second thought, he removes the ring and slides it across the counter toward the employee. “We’ll take this too.”
I blink. “Oh, I didn’t mean you should buy it.”
But he doesn’t respond.
I laugh. “Rafe?—”
He doesn’t say anything when the woman pauses—unsure if we’re actually serious— before scanning it and adding it to the total.
I’m at a loss for words, even after he pays for everything and slides the ring back onto his middle finger. We exit the gift shop hand in hand, him holding with an assured grip—nothing like the man in the museum one second away from a breakup. The new ring bumps between my fingers, like it’s been there the whole time. Like it’s no big deal that he’s wearing something I picked out for him.
But it does matter.
He doesn’t comment on it.
Neither do I.