Chapter 9 #3
Jonathan is predictably punctual, waiting in the lobby, pamphlet-sized map in hand.
Even in this weather, he’s wearing faded khakis and sneakers.
Heat didn’t bother him, Cece remembers. He never broke a sweat, not when they biked through the Tuscan countryside that one summer, not when they took a weekend trip to DC to see the sights, humid air thick like stew.
No—Jonathan always ran cool, dry to the bone.
Cece, on the other hand, is like a cold bottle of beer in summer, dappled and soggy.
Today seems no different, her upper lip salty, underside of her bra damp.
Nevertheless, she endeavors, light on her feet, the edge of a smile on her lips.
They hug, which seems right, although it’s odd to be this formal after everything they’ve been through.
Then again, maybe this is what they need.
To start over, to go back to the beginning.
Jonathan has promised to go as slow as Cece wants, and she intends to hold him to it, if only because she can’t imagine going any other speed.
She isn’t quite sure what she’s hoping for—a moment of clarity, a sign—but there’s comfort in the familiarity of things.
“Where should we start?” Jonathan asks. “The ancient civilization stuff looks interesting.”
Six months ago, Cece might have deferred to Jonathan’s preference, but she has no real interest in looking at rusted knives and spearheads.
She still remembers the hours they’d spent staring at the medieval suits of armor at the Met during one of their earlier dates.
Back then, it didn’t matter that she was terribly bored by the endless versions of silly-looking chain mail and flamboyant jousting paraphernalia, but now, she feels no desire to please.
“They’re supposed to have some incredible modern and contemporary art. Let’s start there.”
“Sure,” Jonathan says, unbothered by not getting his way.
A museum was a strategic choice by Cece—a space that required minimal conversation, hushed tones, and lots of walking.
Cece commends herself on the decision as they move slowly from exhibit to exhibit, the parquet floor creaking beneath their feet.
Patrons dot the rooms, standing statue-like before gold-framed paintings entranced by the audio guide, headphones squeezed against their inquisitive ears.
There’s another reason they are here instead of Jonathan’s parents’ sumptuous beach house or a rooftop bar in the city, places where Cece finds it difficult to focus and see things for what they are.
Here, there are no distractions, no window dressings, no chance for luxury and comfort to camouflage reality; she can see her relationship with Jonathan for what it is, what it might be.
Among the studious drawing students huddled at their easels and perpetually perturbed security guards in their dour blazers, Cece can observe Jonathan on an even plane, objectively.
They chat idly, pointing to pieces they vaguely recognize.
Jonathan seems content to follow Cece’s lead while she lingers in front of specific paintings, puzzling over the artistic choices.
She’d always wanted to take an art history class in college but hadn’t been able to justify it.
An impressive orange and lavender Rothko arrests her attention.
There’s an immersive quality to it, and Cece catches herself holding her breath while she scans the subtle shifts in color within the rectangular shapes.
Jonathan stands beside her, arms crossed, wristwatch glinting in the dim light. “I like this one,” is all she can say.
“I never totally got abstract art, but this is intense. That’s a serious orange.”
“Is this where you tell me anyone could have made this?”
“No way! I mean, you’ve gotta know something about color theory to pull this off.”
Cece catches a security guard watching them from the corner of the room, the white baseboards scuffed black from his restless heels.
She wonders what he sees. Does he think they’re a couple?
Is he calculating how long they’ve been together, whether they’ve got a shot?
Or does he just think they’re those kinds of friends who are super close—the ones with the pact that they’ll marry if they’re both still single at forty?
And what might Cece think if she saw her with Jonathan, just as they are now?
Would she think they make a good couple?
Or would she wonder why a guy like him would ever date a girl like her?
Or would it be the other way around? Cece wants to ask Jonathan why he’s persisted, why he’s willing to give them another chance, but there’s nothing less appealing than insecurity, and so she remains silent.
They peruse the other rooms, sometimes together, other times apart, letting the artwork pull them in whatever direction it might.
They find a rhythm of sorts, a silent dance where they take turns pointing out details and flourishes that strike them.
To no one’s surprise, Jonathan is drawn to Roy Lichtenstein’s depiction of an exploding military jet with a comic-book-like BLAM written above.
His excitement and wonder remind Cece of how much she enjoys his boyish enthusiasm and near complete and utter lack of self-consciousness.
As they make their way to the American wing of the museum, Jonathan catches Cece’s hand and squeezes it, a grin on his face, and then lets it fall. “This is fun,” he says. “We should do it more often.”
“I think you’d get bored,” Cece says. “I might get bored.”
They stifle their laughter, but not before eliciting a few icy glares from other patrons.
A nervous electrical current bounces in her chest. They were always good at this, going on dates, being out in the world, anonymous but together.
Cece remembers this feeling well: when they walked down crowded city sidewalks, when they stood side by side at monotonous social events, pinching each other’s elbows whenever their tone swerved into snarky, when she’d doze off on road trips and wake to find Jonathan at the wheel, alert and poised, checking his mirrors, passing people with ease.
She remembers it so clearly now—safe, protected within the walls of an impregnable castle perched on a mountaintop, immune to the buffeting winds of fate.
Only halfway through the American collection and Cece is exhausted.
This happens to her in museums. One moment she’s brimming with energy and insight, the next she feels as if she could sleep for days, spent from the endless act of perceiving, studying, and analyzing.
Jonathan’s energy also seems to be flagging, and they agree to cut the rest of the visit short in favor of an early lunch somewhere nearby.
They snake their way through the collection of American paintings, giving a cursory glance before moving swiftly on, compelled by the promise of lunch.
And even though her head is light, and her stomach is grumbling—she’s only had coffee this morning and a zero-fat yogurt—Cece finds herself drawn to a painting on a far wall closest to the exit.
In the foreground, men at work, their faces are bland and featureless, only brushstrokes, except for one, the man in front with a thick rope looped around his shoulder.
He is bigger than the others, sporting a distinct beard, a streak of red under his eye.
A bruise? A cut? Behind the laborers, an enormous wooden boat under construction, the frame bowed, like the ribs of a giant.
Cece is drawn, as if by invisible threads, to the big man’s hands wrapped around the rope, clasped as if in prayer.
Morgan—the last person Cece wants to be thinking about, but now that he’s entered her mind, she can’t help but fixate: What’s he doing at this precise moment?
Is he wondering what she was crying about the other day? Does he ever think of her?
For lunch, Cece recommends Louis’, an unpretentious sandwich-and-burger spot on Crown. She’s on a strict budget, especially with her job at Rayburn up in the air. She’d planned on going to talk to Richie the day after her fallout with Santiago, but she hadn’t been able to muster the energy.
“I was thinking tapas,” Jonathan says. “This new place just opened up. The chef has a great restaurant in the city, too, really good.”
Mediterranean certainly sounds more appealing than sandwiches, and with no illusions about who’ll be footing the bill, Cece is more than willing to yield to Jonathan’s preferences.
The restaurant, with its sleek surfaces and cream-colored tablecloths, reminds Cece of all those fine-dining establishments native to Midtown, the ones catering to patrons with little food sense but plenty of money.
Accompanying the tapas are a lot of frills: edible flowers, foam, a hovering trio of waitstaff.
There’s a stiffness to the ambiance that grates on Cece, but any qualms she has quickly evaporate upon sampling the food: croquettes with downy potato centers, luxurious ham sliced paper-thin that melts in her mouth, fried squid that is at once both crunchy and featherlight.
The wine, the wine! From somewhere she can’t pronounce, chill and crisp on her tongue, the taste of wet stones lingering on her lips.
She’d forgotten how nice it was to eat and drink well; she’d forgotten how easy it was to let Jonathan take control.
What sequence dishes ought to be served, what wine paired best with their meal, what dessert would leave them satisfied but not stuffed—he decided it all.
Cece quickly found herself relaxing, sinking into the plush velvet cushion of her seat.
“Anything promising on the job front?” Jonathan asks, dabbing at the corners of his mouth with a thick napkin.