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“What happened on Friday?”
I frown. Right. I never told Walt about the art gallery, only Matthew.
And maybe that’s for the best.
This trajectory I’ve headed down with Walt isn’t necessarily good for either of us. Shouldn’t we be keeping our distance? Drawing lines in the sand?
“Nothing important. Anyway, that was nice of him to reach out. I wasn’t sure if he actually would. Is it okay? I mean…if I become friends with him?”
“Why wouldn’t it be?”
“I don’t know. This situation is starting to feel complicated.”
He props his hands on his hips. “Then let’s uncomplicate it. Wear your ring, act appropriately in public, and you can do whatever you’d like in private.”
“And the stuff with my parents?”
“Elizabeth—”
“Walt.”
He looks at the ceiling, takes a deep breath, and then relents. “I’ll increase their monthly allowance. Slightly. But if I catch even a whiff of—”
His sentence cuts off when I tackle-hug him, tightening my hands around his waist like I’m trying to squeeze the stuffing out of him. “Thank you.”
He stays stock-still, hands slightly raised up in the air like he’s scared of what I’ll do next.
I laugh and step back.
“You don’t have to look so horrified. I’m the one who should be disgusted by that hug. You’re still sweaty, after all.”
Fourteen
Matthew texts me Sunday evening, asking me if I want to join him for an afternoon coffee the following day. Since he has a busier schedule than I do, I offer to meet him near the NYU campus and then I arrive early to scope out a table. I sit in a corner of the coffee shop, sipping an espresso shot with a splash of milk, trying to figure out why Walt enjoys this so much. To me, coffee should be mostly milk. I try another tiny sip and fight the urge to contort my face.
When Matthew arrives, a few people in the coffee shop recognize him, going out of their way to greet him as he winds through the tables toward me.
“Were you waiting long?” he asks, as he pulls his leather bag over his head and drapes it on the back of his chair. “Sorry. My 3:00 class ran over.”
“No. Not really. I’ve just been here, enjoying the view,” I say, holding up my sketchbook.
He laughs and turns back, scanning the crowd until he sees a woman in line and waves. “That’s Nadiya, the woman I wanted you to meet. I’ll be right back.”
He leaves his things at the table and heads toward the counter to say hello to Nadiya. He leans in to hug her, a familiar greeting shared between the two of them. I’m immediately drawn to the colors she’s wearing. On a drab, cold day in New York, most everyone is wearing black and gray. Her bright blue sweater and navy pants stand out easily alongside a vibrant magenta headscarf that allows a few inches of her dark hair to show at her hairline. Her lipstick coordinates—a shade or two darker than her scarf. Her eyes carry a spark as she laughs at something Matthew says before they step forward to order their coffee.
I’m nervous as they head toward me with their drinks, nervous to show her my sketches and talk about the concept for my current series after what happened on Friday, but her smile is infectious, a huge grin I immediately return as they arrive at the table.
“You must be Elizabeth. Hi! It’s good to meet you.”
“Hi! Yes. I’m so grateful you were able to meet with me today,” I say, shooting to my feet so I can reach out and shake her hand.
“What can I say? I’m impossible to turn down,” Matthew teases.
Nadiya laughs and rolls her eyes at me playfully.
“Here, sit, sit,” I say, pushing my things out of the way so they have room to set down their drinks.
It’s tight quarters in the coffee shop, especially with the afternoon rush. We end up crowded in close, and I listen as they catch up with one another, their banter so easy and carefree I can’t help but smile.
“Do they still have you teaching those freshman courses?” Nadiya asks.
Matthew winks. “Someone’s gotta do it. It’s not all bad. They’re all still bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.”
She laughs and nods.
“Where does Stein have you now?” he asks. “Still on the Upper West Side?”
“I was, but I’m actually heading to France in a few weeks to become second-in-command at the Paris gallery.”
“Are you serious?” I ask this with my jaw dropped. “Did I hear that right? You work at Stein?”
The gallery—so named for American writer Gertrude Stein—has been a fixture in the art community since the early 1900s. Most people don’t realize it, but Gertrude Stein was an enthusiastic art collector in Paris through much of her life. She helped launch the careers of Matisse and Picasso, and she was one of the earliest champions of cubism—back when most critics absolutely hated the avant-garde art.
