25. Twenty-Five
Sara and I stand outside the front entrance of the Cameron Art Museum five minutes early, waiting for the doors to unlock. She hugs her sketchbook tightly and bounces back and forth on her Doc Martens.
“Did we get the time right?” Her phone says 12:01.
“Yes. They’ll open any second now.”
Movement inside quickens Sara’s excited dance. The door opens, and the security guard greets us with a bearded smile. “Good morning, ladies.”
About to enter, Sara turns toward a loud rumble and squeal in the parking lot. “Oh, good. They’re here.”
The old white van taking the space next to my VW makes my heart rate spike. “What’re they doing here?”
“I invited them. Art then Airlie Gardens.” Sara looks devious. “You can’t ignore him forever.”
“It’s only been a few days. I wish you’d asked me first.”
“Consider this a chance to rebuild some trust. Don’t worry—I texted him to be cool.”
I square my shoulders and take a deep breath as the neighborhood posse lumbers across the parking lot.
Rose’s floral dress waves as she walks. “You lasses look sun-kissed and lovely!”
We smile, looking at each other’s outfits. Independently, we opted for sundresses. Sara’s American Eagle white linen babydoll dress brushes her knees and somehow works with her black boots. My blue boho dress with a low back and spaghetti straps is more comfortable than fashionable. Still, it’s artsy, especially with my watercolor silk scarf loosely covering what my shoulder-length hair doesn’t.
“Pretty as a picture,” Vernon confirms, snapping one with his Nikon.
Rose starts a train of cheek kisses, as if everyone naturally follows her British customs.
Jack doesn’t, though. Aside from a short wave to Sara, he stays focused on me, his brown eyes filled with unusual trepidation. His affection rushes back over me like a warm wave, his hands on my face, and the way he studied me between kisses. I feel a bit breathless.
And guilty. I shouldn’t feel like this. His kiss shouldn’t shuffle through my head like a ghost, haunting me, or like a song I can’t forget, warming me whenever it plays. His kiss has turned cruel—like test-driving a car I could never afford or trying on a designer dress I’d never have an occasion to wear. That damn kiss transformed me into a fake Cinderella, but now the party’s over, the spell is broken, and based on the uneasy way he stares at me, I imagine he’s as regretful as I am.
Sara orders the group inside, but it’s with such excitement that no one seems to mind. They form an awkward line, streaming in mid-conversation.
Jack and I don’t move from the sidewalk. The door clanks shut behind them, leaving us alone.
I say exactly what I’m thinking. “Let’s just forget it happened. Please.”
His eyes narrow, taking in my words and desperate tone. “That’s what you want?”
I nod before he finishes his question. “Of course, that’s what I want.” I choke out an awkward laugh, trying to sound dismissive. “Wild kisses under the boardwalk… bet that happens to you all the time. But it’s a first for me. It must’ve been storm madness or your beautiful book or, I don’t know, you being you. It doesn’t matter—it was a mistake.”
“No, it wasn’t. How can you say that?” He takes a short step forward, closing in on me as other patrons circle us to go inside. “This shit doesn’t happen to me all the time, damn it. Wanting something real with a woman I truly care about is a first for me, too.”
I nearly laugh. “I’m not a damn toy for your amusement. I’m offering you an out. Take it. I want to let it go and focus on having a nice time with Sara.”
I twist toward the museum door. His hand gets there first, opening it for me.
Contemporary artists Jan-Ru Wan and Willie Cole feature in the long first room. Prints of ironing boards and antique irons make for a gorgeous, if not unusual, display. A drape of white collared shirts fills the middle, and I’m instantly drawn in by the textures and feelings these pieces create—everyday objects turned into powerful art. I long to catch up with Sara, but our party is nowhere in sight.
We stand in front of the intricate tapestry of colors in Jan-Ru Wan’s Longing—made from her father’s dress shirts. We’re silent for a long minute before he says, “Beautiful and sad. It makes me think of funerals, of life and death. Mom made a quilt out of Devin’s old t-shirts. She keeps it on her bed. I weave him into my stories. In small ways. No one catches it.”
“The boy down the hall from Jasmine in The Other Us… and the over-friendly guy running the concessions in Cape Moon?”
Jack faces me abruptly. “How’d you know that?”
I edge around him and into another exhibit. “You give your Devin characters baseball imagery. The boy wears a baseball cap. The guy has a baseball team’s sticker on his phone. Plus, he’s always joking around. Sounds like Devin.”
He follows me to a different room. The dim lights highlight a ceiling installation—blue, white, and gold colors on what looks like plastic sheeting form waves around us, like an artsy fun house—or another galaxy, I think, landing on his eyes again.
“Rowan, I don’t want an out.”
“What?”
“An out—I don’t want it. That kiss wasn’t me playing, plotting, or trying to prove anything. I kissed you because I wanted to. I still want to. Every day. For as long as you let me. You, Rowan, and no one else… And that scares the hell out of me—this is what’s been hard for me to handle, wanting you. But I don’t care. I could easily fall in love with you, you know. Hell, I may be already.” He looks disappointed like he’s gone too far.
“Is this a joke? You can’t possibly mean that.”
“Why not?” He steps closer, sizing me up. “And don’t you fucking dare say your face. I happen to love your face.”
A labored laugh mixes with a sharp gasp as tears spring to my eyes. These are words I never imagined someone saying to me—they’re words I can’t say to myself. And yet, the sincere look in his eyes assures me—he could love me. In this blue haze, I know I could easily love him, too. Maybe. If I could trust it to last…. If things were different.
“I’m with Dean,” I mutter weakly. “He’s coming home. I can’t just—”
“I know.” Jack’s hands slide into the pockets of his dark pants, and his head hangs, his shaggy hair falling over his eyes in lazy wisps as he watches me. He lets out a trapped sigh. “I’m sorry for the terrible position this puts you in. It’s a risk for me, too. The whole neighborhood might turn against me if I screw this up.”
A laugh rumbles out between tears. “I’d be ousted altogether. The headlines alone make it a risky endeavor.”
“To hell with them. It’s worth it. All I want is a chance for us.”
A chance for us.The words repeat like an unbelievable discovery that requires convincing. He’s not one to take his words lightly—I know that. Despite his playboy persona, he’d never say this without meaning it. My trust in him upticks with each vulnerability, like shards of glass bonding together to form a mosaic.
He adds color when he says, “I wake up wanting to spend time with you and go to bed thinking about things you’ve said. You occupy my thoughts like no one ever has, and I welcome the invasion, Rowan…”
A tearful chuckle slips from me.
“—And that kiss… I know I write that shit all the time, but until you, I didn’t think it could be that good, either. It meant everything to me.”
His words liquefy every hard part of me. I reach for his arm like I might wobble under the weight of what he’s saying.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to make you cry.”
Another laugh emerges. “I knew moving next to you would be trouble… just never expected this kind.”
“That makes two of us.”
Other patrons enter the blue room, and Jack moves us to a corner, shielding me as I pull myself together. His thumb brushes away the wetness under my eyes. And for the first time, when it comes to Jack, I think… maybe.
“Rowan,” Sara’s voice bounces off the hazy display, and she waves us in her direction.
The nearest opening leads to a room of intricate dioramas of old school buildings, homes, and churches. Tom, Marcy, Vernon, and Rose peer through the tiny windows, debating the tools needed for such an enterprise.
Sara sits on a central bench, legs crossed and sketchbook open. Her eyes catch mine as she flips the page.
I sit with her as Jack melds in with the others.
“You okay?” Sara asks in a small whisper as she eyes my hands. I’m strangling my dress hem.
Rose announces to the others, “I like the bits and bobs of it, but it’s not like we can hang one of these over the hearth, is it?”
Their animated discussion turns to home decor.
A chuckle breaks through my unease. “Don’t worry about me. This place is amazing.”
She runs her charcoal stick along the sides of her textured page, roughly capturing the lines of the diorama. Watching her pencil strokes is meditative, calming me the more I focus on the picture she’s creating. That she lets me watch feels like another long-fought victory.
“What’s been your favorite so far?” she asks.
“The blue room.” That’s where Jack Graham said he could fall in love with me. His words roll over in my head like rocks in a tumbler. “How about you?”
“The shirts. They make me think of Dad’s lawn care t-shirts. He’s forever going through them; they’re always dirty no matter how much we wash them.”
“Wonder what you could make out of them.”
She grins. “Me, too.”
We tour the remaining rooms together, discussing each piece like amateur critics. Sara’s knowledge of mediums and techniques is impressive for an adult, let alone a fifteen-year-old. I plan to take advantage of my guardian status and discuss extra opportunities for her with my colleagues in the art department.
With the inside rooms exhausted, we rejoin the others. They sit at a long table in the museum’s café, enjoying tea, cold drinks, and bistro-style sandwiches.
“Rowan, let’s go see the pieces outside.” Sara waves me along.
Jack Graham professes his hope for us, and Sara’s made me her new best friend? It’s a banner day for Rowan Mackey. Maybe I should buy lottery tickets.
We take a side door to the lavish outside, where art mixes with a garden and wooded pathway.
“Thanks for bringing me here.” Her hazel eyes narrow as she side-glances me. “For what it’s worth, I’m glad you and Jack are talking.”
“Um, yeah, me, too.” I think.
When the first sculpture outside inspires her, Sara plops onto the grass to capture it in her sketchbook. I take a bench nearby, watching her with a strange joy. Sara’s sprawled out, sitting on one leg while the other is extended on the grass, indifferent to her white dress or anyone seeing her like this. She bites her bottom lip in her lovely concentration. Holding the charcoal and softening her strokes with her finger makes black smudges on her hands and fingers, even a small gray mark on her cheek when she scratches it. I take secret pictures, sure her father will want to see them and to add to my family album after she’s gone.
In the contemplative silence, I ask myself a long-forgotten question—what do I want?
Someone I can trust with anything—my stories, my past, my heart. When Dean asked for my future, it’s no wonder I flubbed the answer—I hadn’t trusted him with the rest yet. I can’t even trust him to return my calls, so I’m not sure I want to now, either.
But I do with Jack.