Chapter 28
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Archie
Leo’s different this morning.
As we move through the National Gallery together, he’s hovering close to me, touching me constantly.
I pretend I don’t notice, that I don’t care.
But I do notice.
And I can’t turn off that part of me that really does care.
There’s something about having a guy treat you like you’re the most precious thing in the world that sets your heart fluttering. I’m fairly sure it’s an observed phenomenon already documented by science, so I’m not unique.
The National Gallery is actually an awesome place to visit when you’re on crutches. Flat floors, lifts between levels, and benches in every room that are designed for art contemplation but equally useful for ankle-related self-pity.
I’m so efficient on my crutches now that I can easily keep pace with Elizabeth and Leo as we move through the galleries of masterpieces.
“I’m thinking if there was a crutches race at the Olympics, I would be a podium finisher at least,” I say.
“At the very least,” Leo agrees with a small smile.
“I’d need a costume though. I’m not competing in regular clothes. Something with sequins.”
Leo’s smile grows larger. “Obviously.”
“And you’d have to hold up one of those signs in the crowd. With my name on it. And glitter.”
“I’m not holding a glitter sign.”
“You are. You’re my boyfriend. I’ll add a glitter clause to the contract.”
“I’m not signing anything you’ve drafted. I’ve seen what happens when you’re left unsupervised with a clipboard,” he replies, and I laugh.
We round the corner into the next gallery, and the painting of the Execution of Lady Jane Grey stops me in my tracks.
I mean, I know it’s here. I’ve seen it before. But every time I do, it hits slightly differently.
The painting is enormous—nearly three meters wide—and it glows.
That’s the only word for it. Lady Jane kneels center stage in a white satin dress so luminous it looks like Delaroche plugged her into a light socket.
She’s blindfolded, reaching for the execution block, her fingers stretching into empty air.
She can’t find it.
That’s the detail that gets me every time. Lady Jane is about to die, and she can’t find the thing she’s supposed to die on.
Elizabeth has paused beside me. Leo stands slightly behind, his hand resting on the small of my back.
“Ah,” Elizabeth says quietly. “This one.”
“I actually read a book about this painting,” I say.
I feel rather than see Leo’s attention shift to me.
A month ago, I would have immediately followed that sentence with something self-deprecating. “I was bored in a waiting room,” or “It had pictures in it.”
But now I don’t reach for the deflection. I just keep talking.
“It’s of Lady Jane Grey, who was Queen of England for nine days. She was only a teenager, and she was shoved onto the throne by relatives who wanted power, and then executed when the plan went sideways. She’s basically the patron saint of being punished for other people’s ambitions.
“When they told her she was going to be executed, she asked if she could practice laying her head on the block first because she wanted to get it right.”
Something flickers across Leo’s face. “She wanted to get her own execution right?”
“She was seventeen and terrified, yet she still wanted to do it properly. It’s a tragedy.”
“Yeah,” Leo says, staring at the painting.
“The painting was lost for decades. It was in storage at the Tate, and everyone thought the Thames flood of 1928 destroyed it.” I tilt my head, studying the impossible brightness of Jane’s dress against the gloom.
“Then, in 1973, a curator was searching through damaged canvases looking for a completely different painting. He found the missing one rolled up inside this one.”
“So he found it by accident while he was looking for something else,” Leo says. His voice has some kind of weird undertone, and when I glance at him, his eyes aren’t on the painting.
They’re on me.
“The painter’s girlfriend was the model for Lady Jane, apparently,” I add. “She was a famous actress at the Comédie-Francaise.”
“So he painted the woman he loved as someone about to lose her head,” Leo says.
“Romantic, isn’t it?”
His lips twitch. “I would have gone more along the lines of morbid.”
“Romantic and morbid aren’t always mutually exclusive,” I point out, and he gives a small huff of laughter.
Elizabeth has drifted to study the painting from the right side, giving us a small pocket of space.
“The thing I find most interesting about the painting is that Delaroche got nearly everything wrong. He set it indoors with these big Gothic arches for dramatic effect. But the actual execution happened outdoors at Tower Green. He basically staged it like a theater production with the lighting and composition.”
“So it’s famous for being inaccurate?”
“It’s famous for being emotionally true. Nobody cares that the architecture is wrong. They care that a seventeen-year-old girl is blindfolded and can’t find her own execution block.”
Leo is quiet for a moment, drinking the painting in.
“You know a lot about this painting,” he says.
“I know a lot about a lot of things,” I reply.
“I know you do.” Leo’s words are bathed with warmth and affection.
And that’s the thing that undoes me.
Because I don’t have to hide anything from Leo anymore.
He now knows the full truth of who I am.
And he hasn’t flinched away from it. He’s not treating me any differently.
He’s not suddenly holding everything I say reverently, and when I joke about the crutches Olympics, he isn’t acting like I’m somehow committing a cardinal offense because it’s so far beneath my intellectual pay grade to goof around.
I still remember my boyfriend Frederick at university. He was brilliant and serious. The kind of guy who ironed his jeans and used the word discourse in casual conversation.
“I cannot understand how someone with your intellect can have such an immature sense of humor,” he’d sniffed when I’d programmed the department’s shared printer to add a tiny cartoon duck to the bottom corner of every document for an entire week.
It’s been a common theme throughout my life.
People are either intimidated by my intelligence or my supposed intellectual peers are unimpressed with my sense of fun.
But Leo seems to be able to handle both sides of me.
He acts like everything I say is worth hearing, whether it’s about anamorphisms in Renaissance paintings or about which dog on my walking route has the most problematic bowel habits. Although, to be fair, the bowel habits are directly relevant to him.
It’s…intoxicating.
So when we move onto another gallery, I tell him more random facts I’ve accumulated over the years, and Leo listens to all of them.
He doesn’t seem to get bored, he asks follow-up questions, and he actually snorts when I point out that Titian was probably the most commercially savvy artist, monetizing his personal brand and licensing his image across multiple platforms.
“He was the first influencer,” I say. “Just with more oil paint and fewer ring lights.”
“Did he have merch?” Leo asks, deadpan.
“He had an entire workshop of assistants mass-producing copies. So yes. He had merch.”
As we move to the next gallery, Leo sends me a sideways look.
“You’re getting tired,” he says.
“No, I’m fine.”
He studies my face. “Liar.”
I swallow. Because this is the thing about Leo. He calls me out on stuff.
“Why don’t we stop here for a while?” he suggests.
Then he steers me to a bench a few meters away. I sink onto it gratefully, even though I’d rather chew off my own arm than admit I need the break.
“Archie and I are just going to take a breather here for a few minutes,” he tells Elizabeth.
She wanders ahead to look at something, and it’s just Leo and me on the bench.
Leo’s hand settles on my waist. Just resting there. Warm. His thumb traces a small circle against my skin, almost absentmindedly, like he’s not even aware he’s doing it.
And my heart cracks open a little further.
I want this all the time.
The thought drifts into my head.
I like how Leo makes me feel about myself.
Because Leo doesn’t seem to think I’m too much. He seems able to take everything I have to give.
But he’s going to leave as soon as my ankle is healed.
There’s a heavy feeling in my stomach, and the warmth of his hand suddenly feels like something I’m borrowing rather than something I get to keep.
I tip my head back, stretching my neck, and when I open my eyes, I’m looking directly at a set of panels I’d forgotten were in this room.
The Story of Joseph.
“Do you know about these panels?” Leo follows my gaze.
“It’s the story of Joseph from the Bible.
He was sold into slavery by his own brothers because they were jealous of the fact that he was their father’s favorite.
” I nod toward the first panel. “They faked his death and told their father he’d been killed.
Joseph ended up in Egypt, worked his way up from nothing, and became one of the most powerful men in the country.
And then years later, his brothers turned up begging for food during a famine, and they didn’t even recognize him. ”
My hand finds my cast. I adjust it unnecessarily. “The question at the heart of the story is whether Joseph forgives them. Whether the people who threw you away deserve a second chance.”
Leo is quiet for a moment. “Did he forgive them?”
“Yes. But it’s a biblical story. Forgiveness is sort of the whole brand.”
Leo chuckles, and the sound of that soft laughter loosens something I wasn’t planning on letting go of.
“I have a brother,” I find myself saying.
“I know you do,” Leo says softly.
“We’re not in contact though.”
“Why not?”
“Well, he didn’t quite fake my death and sell me into slavery.” I tip my head back again, staring at the ceiling this time.
I don’t talk about Vaughn to anyone. Not to Jaymee, not to Billy, not to any of the boyfriends who’ve come and gone without ever getting close enough to ask.