Chapter 22 #2
“Only if I get to snap a photo of you as a reward,” Zayne says with a smirk as he rises from his seat. I chuckle as his eyebrows dance playfully across his forehead.
After he takes the photos, Zayne tells me, “I’ll email you the files later.”
“Thanks,” I say, flashing him my best smile while he returns to his seat.
My phone buzzes again, the vibration drawing my focus back to my lap.
Seriously, get better friends.
The door’s small window still displays an empty corridor.
I tell myself I’m being irrational. There’s no way Phantom’s feeling that way about me. We’ve only just started hanging out. We’re barely even friends. There’s no way Phantom’s . . . jealous.
“You never told me where we’re going,” I tell Phantom as we walk down Main Street.
With a happy glint in their eyes, they say, “An art gallery.”
“No way.”
Phantom chuckles. “Yeah. Rockrose is too small for a museum, so this is the next best thing. If I had a car, I would’ve preferred a trip to Chicago though. I haven’t been to my favorite art museum in too long.”
“Yeah, me either,” I say, trying and failing to remember the last time I stepped foot in a museum. Fifth grade? Maybe sixth? Either way, it’s definitely been too long.
They hold the door open for me as we come to a small, minimalist shop front.
The sign above the door reads ‘Lazy Cat’ in black, cursive script.
The gallery is dimly lit, apart from the white walls, which are brightly illuminated by rows of ceiling track lighting, while soft instrumental music plays in the background.
At the sound of us entering, a short, elderly man with red-rimmed glasses and wiry gray hair appears through a door that reads ‘employees only.’
“Good evening,” he greets us cheerfully as he approaches. “It’s good to see you back so soon,” he comments to Phantom. “I see you’ve brought a friend this time.”
The man’s smile is kind and gentle. I like him already.
“I’m Maeve,” I say cheerfully, offering him my hand.
“Lovely to make your acquaintance,” he replies as he shakes my hand with a firm grip. “I’m Gerald, but do call me Gerry.” He has a slight Eastern European accent, but I can’t seem to place it.
“We’re here to view the new exhibit, and perhaps take a glance at what you’re working on in the back, if you’d be willing to show us.” If it were possible, I’d be convinced that Phantom’s eyes were actually glowing, alight with so much joy it’s difficult to force my gaze anywhere else.
“Of course,” Gerry says, waving his hand with a flourish toward the gallery walls. “Enjoy.”
I turn toward the walls as Gerry leaves us, returning to the back room once more.
“How did you find out about this place?” I ask Phantom as we wander to the wall nearest us.
“Let’s just say that Gerry’s an old family friend.”
“So cool,” I whisper as we approach the first painting.
It’s a riot of red and orange arranged in a mess of triangles and diamonds.
If I look at it all at once, it’s almost enough to make me dizzy, but if I focus my gaze on one section of the painting at a time, the details come alive. “Interesting.”
Phantom nods next to me.
We move on like that for what must be hours, passing paintings of landscapes, portraits, and abstracts, as well as sculptures, digital art demonstrations, and sketches.
There’s so much diversity in the art displayed in the small studio that my head is spinning by the time we’ve come full circle and returned to the front.
“Which piece was your favorite?” Phantom asks, a spirited timbre to their voice.
“I loved so many of them,” I reply, trying to collect my thoughts, “but I think the digital art demonstration was my favorite. The way the technology can change the piece as the viewer interacts with it is fascinating, and so much fun.”
Phantom laughs. “Right.”
As he comes up behind us, Gerry asks, “Are you two ready for the VIP show?”
I look to Phantom with a question in my expression.
“Come on,” they say as they follow Gerry to the back of the gallery.
As we pass through the ‘employees only’ door, we enter a small workroom. At the center of the space is a large workbench with a bunch of fancy equipment on it and a large adjustable light hovering above, almost like what you’d find in an operating room.
“Gerry was a professional art restorationist before he bought this gallery,” Phantom murmurs in my ear. I ignore the surge of heat that snakes across my skin at their sudden proximity.
“Now it’s more of a hobby of sorts,” Gerry explains with a chuckle. “I only do small-scale restorations for the locals.”
I roll onto my tippy toes to try and get a better look at the painting on the table.
Phantom laughs and gives me a gentle nudge. “You can get closer. Go look.”
So I do. I walk around the table, careful not to bump into anything, and come to a stop behind Gerry. He sits on a stool before the workbench and gestures to the painting with a curved, arthritic finger. “This is a painting from the 1950s. My client asked for it to be restored and reframed.”
It’s a landscape of a wide valley full of blooming wildflowers in the height of summer. I swear I can almost smell honeysuckle just by looking at it. It’s beautiful, though admittedly a bit worse for wear.
“Mind if we watch you work for a while?” Phantom asks from my side.
“Not at all,” he says merrily, and then sets to work.
His hands are cautious and nimble, taking no risks at all, as he wets a wad of cotton on a stick and begins to gently remove the old, discolored varnish from the painting.
His movements are practiced and methodical.
As a paper-thin layer of varnish disappears, the colors of the paint shift before our eyes, from dull and ashen to radiant.
I don’t know how much time goes by as we watch him clean and restore the painting, but eventually, Phantom lightly tugs on my elbow as they say, “Thanks, Gerry. We appreciate your time.”
“My pleasure. Do come back again soon, and tell the old bat I say hello,” Gerry replies with a toothy smile before returning to his work.
“We’ll come back soon,” I call as Phantom closes the door behind us.
“I’m speechless,” I remark as we exit the gallery and begin our walk down the gusty sidewalks back to campus. “That was one of the coolest things I’ve ever seen.”
“I’m glad you liked it,” Phantom says while they stuff their hands deep into their coat pockets.
I study their face for a moment as they observe the busy street, and I realize that, more than anything, I wish I could see what their smile looks like beneath that mask. I bet it’s as marvelous as they are.
As we walk, I accidentally bump into Phantom, and my cheeks heat as I hastily apologize. Writing it off as a fluke, I continue our conversation about the art we saw in the gallery, until it happens again . . . and again.
Have I always walked this crooked? Or is there a different reason my body keeps gravitating toward theirs?