Chapter Five
Five
The week before PERPETUITY, I dream of Julian Conrad three more times.
In the first dream, we are back in that room in Edison Mansion, except this time Sophie does not interrupt.
The last note of our rendition of “Is It a Crime?” rings in my ears as Julian’s hands shift from skimming along keys to clutching the sides of my jaw, and when he kisses me it feels like violence.
In the next, we are at Brews and Beans, crashing into displays and knocking over kitschy multicolored thermoses and satchels of dark roast in our haste to get at each other’s skin.
I tug his shirt open, and his buttons scatter.
The final dream is different. Julian sits at my kitchen island, his head propped on the heel of his hand.
His stare penetrates, pierces past skin and flesh to probe at whatever lies within, and I find myself frozen, unable to look away.
I need him, I think. I need him I love him please don’t stop please don’t look away from me—
Something warm and wet slides against my face, and I’m jolted out of my sleep to find Onix hovering over me. Discovering me awake, he rears back in delight, bathing me in dog breath and frantic kisses.
“Onix! Oh my god!” I grab both of his paws, holding him just out of reach. He is not allowed on the bed without permission and is most definitely not allowed to kiss me on the mouth, but, by the relieved wag of his tail, he clearly doesn’t regret it.
And if I’m honest, neither do I. Now that I’m awake, I can recognize that what Onix just pulled me out of was a nightmare.
My body roils with residual anxiety—my teeth chattering, hands clenching, breaths coming quick and hard.
It’s not longing I’m feeling, though in my dream my desire for Julian was desperate. It’s fear.
Which makes no sense. Because why in the world would I be afraid of Julian Conrad?
Luckily, there are no more random run-ins with Julian in the hospital, and he is yet to materialize inside my house.
And while I find him significantly more engaging than, say, Questionably Literate Bakery Guy, my interest in him is measured.
I do not spend the days leading up to our gallery date hurriedly searching for an outfit or retightening my locs.
When I call Winny, it’s to make plans for dinner, not to recount my messages with my newest suitor.
Not that there’s much to report. The messages with Julian themselves are tame enough in volume, frequency, and content; every other day or so we share songs we think the other will like (to my irritation, he pins down my tastes almost immediately), we discuss our favorite restaurants, and he sends me more details for our upcoming date.
He does not text me good morning with an assortment of indecipherable emojis.
He does not ask for nudes or hit me up at midnight for a booty call or get annoyed when I take six hours to respond to him because I’ve been caught up in the lab.
He behaves, in general, with more decorum than most men ten years his senior.
On my way, he texts simply, the night of the exhibition. Be there in twenty.
I use those twenty minutes to get ready.
The turquoise pantsuit I pull from my closet is low-cut and loose fitting, a look Sophie would describe as “Rich Auntie” and Winona “Tracee Ellis Ross.” Next are my earrings, half faces of a woman crafted out of thick gold wire that Sophie bought me from an artisan’s fair a few years back.
My heels are sensible, the kind worn by a woman for whom maintaining ergonomics is a matter of job security, and my makeup is minimal.
I look good, but I will also be able to eat all the hors d’oeuvres at this gallery without worrying about my bloat.
Julian is waiting outside his car for me when I descend. He’s wearing a charcoal peacoat and a gray wool scarf, and his nose is a little pink with cold. When he spots me, his face brightens. And…wow. It’s a subtle transformation, a shift that takes him from sculpture to real boy, and it rocks me.
“Sean,” he says.
“Julian,” I manage, inclining my head.
He opens the passenger-side door of his car—a black Audi with a tan interior that smells like new leather—then snaps it closed behind me before walking over to the other side and settling into his seat. The locks click shut.
At the sound, the hairs on my body stand on end and a cool sweat creeps down my back.
It takes me a second to realize that what I’m feeling is panic—that, for reasons I can’t pinpoint, my body has registered the click of the car lock like the shutting of a trap and is reacting accordingly.
But it’s immediately assuaged when Julian begins to speak.
“So, what made you change your mind?” he asks, turning a smooth corner.
“About what?”
“About me. I was under the impression that you thought I was a kid, but now here we are, on a date.”
“Well, you did rescue me from a terrible caffeine headache,” I tease.
“Ah, yes, of course, it was the coffee.” He glances at me sidelong, eyes twinkling. “Definitely not my dastardly good looks.”
“You’re aware of your charms,” I say, invoking his earlier words.
Julian laughs. I like the sound of it, hearty, honest.
“I’m guessing if I go fishing for compliments I’m going to come out empty-handed with you, aren’t I.”
His voice catches just enough for me to realize that he’s nervous.
I think about what Leila said, that Julian hadn’t shut up about me, and soften.
This is not the preternaturally perfect apparition who has been slinking around my brain.
Julian Conrad is just a guy. A guy who, inexplicably, might have a crush on me.
“I’m curious about you,” I say abruptly. “That’s why I said yes. Because I think I might just find you interesting.”
Julian sucks in a cheek to keep from smiling, and I find that I like that too.
We spend the next ten minutes making bashful, inane conversation before pulling into the parking lot of a small but handsome stucco building just outside the museum district.
“Harrison even from our position near the entrance, I can see oil and acrylic, watercolor and ballpoint pen, even a sculpture displayed in a raised glass case.
Fifty or so guests mill around the space, accepting passed hors d’oeuvres, leaning against the bar, and examining the work as early 2000s hip-hop plays in the background.
Julian gets pulled away by a guest, and so I wander around the gallery alone.
Intermixed with the more abstract pieces are more realistic ones: a still life featuring a skull surrounded by rotting fruit, a nude man reaching for the sky as blood pours from his neck.
I stop at a particularly strange painting: a woman, dressed in white, is draped dramatically over a table, her arms splayed around her in surrender and eyes squeezed shut in distress as a naked man squats on her stomach.
His skin is white pale, and he peers at the observer through a curtain of black hair. The name: The Recurring Nightmare.
“It’s a recreation of The Nightmare by Henry Fuseli.” I turn to find that Julian has returned. He cocks his head at the strange skull painting. “That one’s referencing a Cézanne. Still Life with Skull, I think.”
I pull out my phone to look them up and raise my eyebrows, impressed.