Chapter Twelve
Twelve
Audrey pressed Theo’s buzzer and knocked on the door again. She’d texted she was coming over as soon as she’d seen that Instagram post, and though she didn’t say why, Theo’s reply was enough to confirm that he probably knew.
Because all he’d said was:
Okay.
But the longer he took, the more she began to worry, and Audrey was just about to buzz again when Theo finally yanked open the inner door. He unlocked the security door and quickly ushered her inside.
Either he’d been working or working out, because his hair and black T-shirt were both drenched in sweat. But his face was paler than it usually was as he helped her out of her coat.
Audrey didn’t say anything. She simply showed him Lightm4st3r’s post and grabbed one of his hands to hold up next to her phone for comparison. They were identical.
Theo paled even further, but he nodded. “I know. I posted that for you.” His voice shook. He obviously wasn’t going to deny it. “I didn’t know how else to tell you, and I wondered if you might—”
“Recognize your hands? Yeah. I did.”
“You—you did. Okay. Wow.” He ran one nervously through his hair, sweeping it out of his eyes for once.
Audrey was suddenly struck by the nonchalance of it, the practiced motion, and she realized that while Theo was thinking about Lightm4st3r, he must have been acting the way he did before his accident.
She’d never seen him uncover his face so easily.
He usually tried harder to hide it.
“I’m on a call right now, but uh…just come with me, and I’ll finish up so we can talk. All right?” He held out his hand, his expression pleading, and Audrey slid hers into it slowly.
Theo guided her to the room tucked beneath the stairs and pushed open a door to reveal a well-lit office.
It was the place where he’d hidden his motorcycle helmet after she’d found it on the shelf, and it was nestled carefully into a corner next to a huge motorized sit-stand desk outfitted with three monitors, a massive high-end drawing tablet, a very expensive Herman Miller desk chair, and a high-definition webcam.
A stern-looking woman with short blond hair was pursing scarlet-painted lips up on one of the monitors, and she shook her head when they entered.
“Who is this?” She had a light British accent and a voice just as stern as her expression.
“Theo, we’re having a private call. You know?
The whole attorney-client privilege thing?
Things that are privileged should probably stay…
” She waved a sardonic hand. “Privileged? Private?!” From what Audrey could see of the office behind her, it was furnished in mahogany shelves lined with leather-bound books.
It looked fancy.
Theo gave Audrey an encouraging squeeze on her arm before stooping and whispering in her ear, “I’ll just be a second. Do you mind hanging here?” She shook her head and he limped back over to the desk, slumping tiredly in the chair.
“Imogen, that’s my girlfriend, Audrey. She’s fine.”
“ ‘Fine’?!” The lawyer groaned in resignation before rubbing at her temples. “Theo, I swear—”
“We’re not discussing anything I wouldn’t tell her anyway.”
“They’re your billable hours, so it’s no skin off my nose if you want to involve other ears in our conversations. Do what you like with your money.”
“I always do,” he responded before picking up a pen and scribbling something in his little battered leather notebook. “Anyway, as I was saying, you can tell her assistant no. I’ve told her no before, and my answer remains the same.”
“You know she’s not going to take that lightly.”
“It doesn’t matter how she takes it, only that she does. I think it’s ridiculous she’s even asking, especially now.” His gaze darkened. “And especially because she had her assistant do it.”
“That’s because you’re not answering her phone calls.”
“And I’m going to continue not answering them. No means no.”
“All right then.” The scratching of a fountain pen came through the computer’s speakers as the attorney made some sort of note. “I’ll tell her that. Again.”
Audrey busied herself with looking at all the things hanging on the walls in his office while they went back and forth on whatever someone was asking Theo to do.
There were a few framed sketches and paintings all done in various styles and colors mixed in with photographs of people she didn’t know but who mostly looked vaguely like Theo’s relatives.
One was a photo of him and Diego, both younger and skinnier, clad in familiar Columbia Lacrosse T-shirts.
Theo’s wide grin stretched from massive ear to massive ear, which jutted out adorably from the sides of his head.
She glanced over her shoulder at the current version of those ears, poking up through his dark waves in the light streaming from the monitor.
He’d grown into them.
She looked at the photo again. Ears aside, the most remarkable thing about it was that this was the first time she’d ever seen a recognizable picture of adult Theo without his scar. It was almost uncanny—she couldn’t imagine him without it.
Frankly, he wasn’t any less handsome now.
It oddly suited him.
Besides the photos and the artwork, there was a collection of clippings and articles.
The walls were covered with write-ups from The New York Times, printouts of posts from the BBC, screenshots from a segment on Good Morning America, photos from Page Six, even a framed exposé carefully cut out of a Time magazine—all of them featuring the art of and speculation around the mysterious Lightm4st3r.
All of this, Theo’s secret alter ego, had been tucked away in a small room under his stairs, right next to where they’d cuddled on the couch.
And the deeply introverted artist himself sat right across from her, clad in sweaty workout clothes while arguing with his lawyer.
When her eyes landed next on a wall of diplomas, they widened.
Theodore H. R. Sullivan had not only a BFA in visual arts from Columbia University but also a BS in chemistry, both dating from the same year and both designated summa cum laude.
A dual degree, with highest honors. Next to those two frames was a larger one, an MFA in studio art from NYU, and, perhaps most shockingly, a valid and recent license as a master electrician.
Theo hadn’t ever mentioned trade school, but he’d apparently gone there as well.
Were there any degrees he didn’t have?
“Yeah, thanks, Imogen. We’ll talk again soon.”
“Take care, Theo. Be careful with the socials. My phone’s ringing off the hook, so please warn me next time you’re going to post something.”
“I will.” The Zoom call ended and Theo spun back around in his chair, pressing heavily up from it and stumbling to his feet.
He limped over to Audrey and stood next to her, closing his eyes and rubbing the back of his neck.
“Sorry about that. Imogen Phillips is my creative attorney. She’s kind of like my agent, but better.
Manages all the complicated handoffs of art pieces, negotiates charity contracts, brokers press deals, basically does all kinds of things on my behalf. ”
“You have a lawyer just for your art.”
“Yeah?” He opened one eye and winced.
“For Lightm4st3r?”
His wince deepened. “I wanted to tell you. I thought about it. I was about to try when I was making pancakes last weekend and you asked for a secret, but you’d reacted so strongly to me, uh…
” The tips of his ears reddened. “You were very incredulous about the kind of street cred I might have as an artist, so I panicked and punted to the trust fund instead.”
That was a fair point. If he’d told her last week, she might have thought it was a joke.
In retrospect, it felt far less kind of her than she’d have liked it to.
“And, um…” Theo trailed off again with a sigh.
“In all honesty, it’s a pretty big fucking secret.
I didn’t want to burden you with that, especially this soon out of the gate.
Figured I’d put something out into the ether, and at the very least, I could point to it later when we talked about it.
But I didn’t want to rope you into keeping it with me this early.
And I, uh…” He attempted to smile, but it twisted into a grimace instead.
“I didn’t actually think you’d recognize my hands that fast. Not that I’m surprised, you’re really smart, but um… ”
He trailed off when Audrey didn’t say anything. She didn’t quite know what to say. Instead, she picked nervously at her thumbs and turned her attention back to Theo’s wall of diplomas, worrying at her bottom lip with her teeth.
He’d been a trained electrician this entire time when she couldn’t even build a working circuit to reliably test her battery design.
He had a terminal graduate degree and could teach college if he wanted to.
He was a world-renowned artist. He’d been written about in Time magazine.
He could do so many things. He could date someone so much better, so much prettier, someone who didn’t rummage around in garbage in her spare time, who hadn’t failed classes so bad she lost her scholarship her freshman year, who didn’t work in a café for minimum wage plus tips, who owned nicer outfits than the nineteen-dollar cocktail dress she’d once found in a Forever 21 clearance section.
He came from so much money, had grown up riding horses, going to private schools, probably summering in Europe, and she didn’t even have a passport.
He owned a brownstone with a river view in Brooklyn and a two-thousand-dollar espresso machine. He could—