“Oh, but we do,” I tease. I open my door as she sulks, rounding the car to open the door for her. “You promised me a date so that’s exactly what we’re doing, sweetheart.”
She steps out, her Louboutin heels tapping out onto the pavement. I reach my hand out to her, but she ignores it. She’s going to make today hell and I can’t wait until she gives in. I’m bringing her to a new art showing at Origin Hall in Colorado. I’ve never been, and I’ve seen the art pieces around her apartment that aren’t Kennedy’s. I noticed the way she paused for a second when we were walking from the business building to the parking lot and there was a painting from one of the first students at NU in the art department.
I know she’s going to enjoy it. She might have insisted on going on different flights to get here (I took my private plane, and she took hers), but I’m determined to make her smile.
“Couldn’t we have just lied to them? We didn’t have toactuallygo on a date,” she whines as we walk up the stone steps to the museum entrance. It’s a large grey building that resembles a huge brick with small cut out windows. It’s supposed to be one of the best up and coming museums in Denver.
“What would be the fun in that?” I ask. She looks up at me, pinning with me with a look as if to say‘Are you serious’and I grin back at her. “Come on. The contract said you had to be a good date and you’re not being a very good one right now.”
“I’m being as pleasant as I can be considering you’re my date,” she mutters as she pushes open the large door.
Immediately, we’re met with silence. I’ve come to enough museums and galleries to know that they’re sacred places for collectors and people who love art. People in uniforms work silently, cleaning down surfaces. The only noise I can hear is my heavy breathing and the click of Scarlett’s heels.
She’s wearing a striped navy pantsuit with averyshort crop white top underneath as she leaves her blazer open, allowing me to see lots of her exposed, smooth, tanned skin. Her hair isn't tied up today, instead it falls halfway down her back, but I can still spot the blue ribbon tied to her wrist. I think she keeps it there in case of emergencies.The same way I spontaneously bought a back of hair ties because I know it irritates her to have her hair down from the way she was fighting herself with it in the restaurant.
Maybe I didn’t think this one through because I am also here with the most talkative person on the planet. I don’t know how she’s planning to deal with the silence in here. It’s like taking a kid to a library.
As if she’s reading my mind she murmurs, “I don’t think I can do this.”
I turn to her. She’s pulled her lips between her teeth, her cheeks a faint glow of red. She’s not wearing any makeup today, she usually doesn't, but today her freckles are even more prominent on the bridge of her nose. Fuck, she looks cute. The way she’s trying to stop herself from talking or laughing – or both – is just fucking adorable.
“You can do it, Scar. I believe in you,” I whisper, winking.
“No. I don’t think I can,” she says, shaking her head. Hard. “I’m good at a lot of things, Branson, but not talking isn’t one of them.”
“Come on,” I say, urging her to walk further in since we’re still in the lobby. “The art’s going to be so fantastic that you won’t even need to talk.”
“I doubt it,” she mutters, dragging her feet as we walk down into a large room. This space is dedicated to all oil paintings made by an artist called Arnold Luc. Most of them are captivating pieces of boats and scenes at sea. It’s pretty, but not my kind of thing.
My kind of art is the woman standing in front of the painting.
I knew she would shut up as soon as we got to some of the paintings. Her head is tilted slightly as she bends down to read the plaque beneath the painting. The one she’s looking at is a scene of viscous waves, looking like a scene from the movie ‘The Little Mermaid.’ She shoves her hands into her pockets, taking her time to read and appreciate. She’s not saying anything and there’s one else in here, so she could.
Even I can’t take the quiet, so I say the first thing that comes to mind.
“I’ve never been on a proper date before,” I admit. As embarrassing as it is to admit, it’s true. I’ve never had to plan anything to take another girl out. Even though Cat and I dated for a few years, we never went anywhere romantic or planned things to class as a date. Most of the times we hung out was spontaneous and we didn’t do much talking. Towards the end of our relationship, it was filled with a lot more uncomfortable silences than anything else.
Scarlett turns around slowly, her hands still in her pocket. I get a very good view of her tanned and toned stomach. No sign of the tattoo though. She has a smirk on her lips, ready to torment me.
“You’re telling me you and your rich girlfriend never went on dates?” she asks. I can’t tell if she’s trying to make fun of me or if she’s genuinely curious. I shrug.
“We did. Just not like this,” I reply.
“Is that why you wanted to come here?”
“That’s one of the reasons,” I say, shrugging again. “She wasn’t really the going out type or the kind to like PDA. We were public but private.”
She nods, stepping in closer to me, studying me. Her gaze could come off to others as scrutinising, but I can tell that the bolts in her head are working overtime trying to figure me out, so I let her. “Doyoulike PDA?” she asks.
“I don’t hate it,” I say truthfully. She nods, smiling slightly, and then walks past me. Of course, I follow her into the next room.
This one not only has large paintings on the walls, cased in gold frames, but it also has small sculptures inside glass boxes. Most of the paintings are abstract, unable to tell whether they’re people, places, or objects. They just exist on the page and they’re magnificent. The small sculptures are mostly nude crafts of torsos and breasts.
She’s quiet again as we walk around the room slowly. She’s capable of more than she lets on. As much as she likes to brag about how amazing she is, sheisextraordinary. She told me she wouldn’t be able to be quiet and she’s managing it perfectly. For once, we’re not arguing. We’re not giving each other dirty looks. We’re just existing, enjoying art and each other’s company. Well, I hope she’s enjoying my company. It’s hard to tell if she’s in her own world or not.
She stops still in front of a painting towards the end of the room near the door. It’s a painting clearly with many layers, shades of orange, brown, blue, purple, and black lathered over each other in no particular fashion. She stands, hands in her pockets again, her ankles crossed as she reads the plaque over and over.
‘Germiane Eckbert b. 1803.You are home, 1829.Acrylic on canvas.’
