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He seems to appreciate my self-deprecating tone because his features soften. “What’s it like living here with my brother?”
“Like living here absolutely alone, really.”
“Is he gone that often?”
“I don’t think I’ve seen him more than a handful of minutes since I moved in. Before, I thought it was just because of work, but I imagine he’s been spending time with Camila too.”
He nods in agreement.
“Do you know her well?” I ask, my stomach squeezing tight with anxiety.
“She’s a professor at NYU with me.”
I rear back. “Is she really? So is that how you all know each other?”
“Yeah. She’s been faculty longer than I have, over in the department of Latin American Studies.”
“But aren’t you at Tisch?”
He nods, finishing another bite of his food. Then he wipes his mouth with his napkin before replying, “NYU had invited Francisco Rodríguez, the Venezuelan economist, for a faculty lecture series. Walt and I were both interested in attending, so I invited him as my guest. We ended up sitting beside Camila, and they got to talking before the lecture began. Afterward, we all went for drinks.”
“How long ago was that?”
He thinks it over with a squint. “Six months, I guess, give or take? The lecture was last fall.”
I’m leaning toward him now, eager for more tiny morsels of information—information Walt would never divulge himself.
“So are they really in love?”
He chuckles. “Let’s put it this way…I don’t think you marry someone else, even pretend to, if you’re really in love with someone else.” Then he glances over at me curiously. “Haven’t you talked with Walt about all this?”
I lean back in my chair. “Like I said, we barely see each other.”
“Sure. Okay.”
He goes back to eating and I sip my champagne, a shallow silence falling over us before he picks up the conversation, turning it toward my art.
“What are your plans now that you’ve graduated? Are you taking a break?”
“Not at all. I’m working more now than ever. In fact, I spent the majority of my day today camped out at Hauser & Wirth, trying to meet with one of their directors.”
“Did you really?” He seems delighted by the idea. “That’s so…”
“Insane? I know. Don’t worry, they agreed with you. They turned me away pretty fast.”
He frowns sympathetically. “I’m sorry to hear that, though it seems surprising. If you graduated from RISD, you have to be pretty good at what you do. What excuse did they give you?”
“Oh, it’s complicated.”
I can’t bring myself to utter the words “coffee shop art”, so I give him a watered-down version of the truth. “The art world is a shifty beast. It’s like fashion in the sense that there are always perpetually changing trends. I mean, sure, your classic Picassos and Monets will always sell, just like with Louis Vuitton and Chanel, but modern artists have a trickier time. It’s all so dependent on what gallerists want to display. A lot of them are bored with paint on canvas.”
“Who could be bored by that?”
“Thank you!” I say, shoving his shoulder playfully.
He laughs. “Well, I’d like to see what you do. I know a few people who might be able to point you in the right direction.”
“Are you serious? You’d do that?”
“Sure. You’re my sister-in-law now, aren’t you?”
A great relieved laugh pours out of me. Finally, someone willing to poke fun at this odd set of circumstances.
“I’m completely kidding, by the way,” he says, with a sheepish smile. “I can’t look at you like that. I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to find your sister-in-law attractive.”
“Oh.” The sound falls past my lips, forming a surprised O.
“Was that not smooth? Damn. Sorry. I just got out of a relationship before the holidays, so I haven’t really been in the dating scene for a while. Here, let me try again.” He shakes out his shoulders as if trying to relax, then he glances at me with full-on sincerity and says simply, “Elizabeth, you’re hot.”
I can’t help but laugh as he shrugs in resignation.
“Now this is the point, I think, when you’re supposed to tell me I’m hot too.”
I’m laughing harder now, like he’s tapped into some deep well of happiness I haven’t felt in as long as I can remember.
I don’t immediately catch sight of Walt paused at the threshold of the dining room, watching us. Watching me, rather. I glance up and my laughter freezes, smile in place, to find he’s wearing one of his own. A small one. Just the right side of his mouth is lifted up. His dimples are there, the ones that match his brother’s.
“How’s Camila?” I ask, checking to see if she’s behind him.
I immediately regret my question when it steals away his small smile.
He walks into the dining room and takes the spot on the other side of his brother, the seat where Camila was sitting a little while ago.
