Chapter 3 #4
"I want to know that I can trust my own judgment."
“Do you feel as if you can?” Those icy eyes are still on me, and I feel as if there’s something more to this question that he’s not asking.
I shrug. “Sometimes.” I take a sip of the terrible coffee. "But sometimes expertise and a gut feeling are at a crossroads, and you have to decide which one to follow. It can be a hard decision. Especially when other people are reliant on you.”
He nods. "What do you do in those moments?"
“Usually fall back on my expertise. I’d like to be better at following my gut.”
"Faith requires you to go to the edge," Alexander says calmly. "To be willing to sacrifice everything."
“That’s a difficult kind of faith.”
Those piercing eyes meet mine. "Anything worth believing in requires you to risk everything."
There's a slightly dangerous edge to his voice, and I feel my pulse leap. That fantasy flashes back into my head; the gloved hand on my throat, his mouth close to mine, and I reach for my coffee, taking a quick sip. “I’d like to be less risk-averse,” I say with a laugh.
“I was when there wasn’t so much on the line.
Now taking risks feels much more dangerous. ”
“There’s a thrill in danger, though, isn’t there?”
“Of course.” I smirk. “That’s what makes it so intoxicating.”
The light outside has started to soften, I realize. The afternoon has slipped away, and I realize with a start that we've been together for over two hours. It feels like it’s been minutes.
“I should head back.” I reach for my phone to text the driver. “I don’t want to leave my friend for too long; I’m here to see her. It’d be rude to stay out too late.”
It’s true that I don’t want to abandon Annie for long, but she’s not exactly on her own. It’s a good excuse to leave, though, before I sink deeper into a quicksand that I should have seen in time to avoid. “Thank you for the conversation. And the coffee.”
"The pleasure was mine." He pauses. "May I have your number? I'd like to continue this conversation. Maybe over dinner, instead of coffee?"
My heart flips in my chest. My instinct—that gut feeling we were just discussing—wants to say yes immediately. I want to explore this connection that feels unlike anything I've experienced before.
But part of my mind is screaming warnings. And I’m not here to go out to dinner, I’m here to spend time with Annie. This can’t go anywhere, so what’s the point?
"I can't," I say, shaking my head regretfully, and I watch something flicker across his face. Disappointment, maybe. "I'm leaving Boston in a couple of days to go back to New York. I don’t want to take time away from my friend while I’m here. And I just... I don't think it's a good idea."
"Because you're leaving?"
I nod. “It’s just… not a good idea,” I repeat.
He steps back, and I feel a loss in the space between us. Another sign that this is something unusual, something that I should escape as quickly as possible. "I understand."
"I'm sorry." I manage a smile.
"Don't be." He returns it, but there’s something sad in his smile. "Some moments are just that, beautiful and brief. Not meant to last."
He's giving me an out… being gracious. Making this easy. It makes me feel almost guilty for turning him down.
“Goodbye, Mara,” he says, a smile on his lips. “I hope the Monet turns out to be everything you hope it is.”
The last sentence feels like a blow to my ribs. I never told him about the Monet.
He's already walking away, his figure disappearing into the crowd of museum-goers. I swallow hard, warning bells going off in my head… but it’s easy enough to rationalize.
He was standing on the other side of the curb, walking past me when I was on the phone.
He likely heard part of my conversation.
It wasn’t as if I’d been particularly secretive about it.
The sun is setting by the time I get back to the brownstone. Annie is on the couch, her feet propped up, looking much better than she did at the museum.
"So," she says the moment I walk in, her eyes bright with curiosity. "Tell me everything."
I eye her cautiously as I sink into the chair across from her. "There's nothing to tell."
"Liar." She grins. "You were gone for three more hours. And you have that look."
"What look?" I frown at her.
"The look that says something happened. Something interesting." She leans forward. "Was it a painting? Did you discover a lost Caravaggio?"
"No." I hesitate, then decide there's no point in hiding it. Annie will just pester me until I tell her anyway. It was one thing when he was just a momentary connection on the curb, but this is something different. "There was a man."
Her eyes go wide. "A man? At the museum? Tell me everything right now."
I sigh and dive into it—at least, the part about seeing Alexander Volkov at the museum.
For some reason, I don’t mention that I ran into him outside the brownstone.
Annie would just ask why I didn’t say something then, and I don’t want her to feel like I was keeping something from her.
I tell her about the conversation, and the way he seemed to understand art the way I do.
"And?" Annie prompts when I finish. "Did you give him your number?"
I shake my head. "No."
"Mara!" She looks genuinely distressed. "Why not?"
“Because I’m going back to New York in a couple of days. I told you I don’t want to do anything long distance. And I’m not going to waste time I could be spending with you on a hookup… it would be a waste,” I add before she can cut me off and protest. “It’s just not worth it.”
Annie studies me for a long moment. "You're scared."
“No, I’m being realistic.”
She settles back against the cushions with a sigh. "Well, if it's meant to be, you'll see him again. Boston's not that big." She pauses. “He said he was a museum donor?”
She pulls out her phone, that bright curiosity in her eyes. "Let me just..."
“Annie!” I protest, but she’s already searching. A moment later, she frowns.
“Nothing. No social media, no write-ups in the paper. There’s nothing about him being connected to the MFA. Nothing about him at all, actually.”
"Maybe he's private? Some donors don't want publicity." I shrug. “He seemed like the type.”
Thankfully, I manage to get Annie to drop the subject a moment later when Elio comes home, and the conversation turns to what to do for dinner.
But later, lying in the guest room, I can't stop thinking about him—about the intensity of his eyes, his interest in the paintings, his clear interest in me.
I think about seeing him in front of the brownstone, and the way he was standing there with such utter confidence. Like he owned the place.
I think about the way he disappeared when Annie appeared, like he didn't want to be seen. Something about Alexander Volkov doesn't fit.
It doesn’t matter, I tell myself, rolling over with a huff. I said no. I’m not going to see him again. Whether there’s something off about him or not, it’s immaterial now.
I should forget him. Should let this be what he said it was: a beautiful, brief moment not meant to last.
But deep down, in a place I don't want to examine too closely, I know I won't forget.