“Solène. It’s already done.”
I stood there, stunned. “This feels a little like slavery. White slavery.”
“Except I’m buying your freedom, I’m not buying your services. Don’t overthink it.”
We made our way through the throngs on the first floor and out onto the street, Hayes leading me by the hand the entire time. It felt so open and obvious, and all I could think was how the European art world would be talking about the fact that I’d abandoned my partner to engage in a patently inappropriate affair.
There were girls when we stepped out next to the Champs-Élysées. Many. It was Sunday afternoon, after all. And when Hayes took a moment to don his sunglasses and a gray knitted cap, I stepped away from him and crossed my arms.
“Are you just going to pretend we’re not together?” he asked as we made our way to the taxi queue.
I laughed, uneasy. I did not want a TMZ repeat.
“Whatever.”
There was a family in line ahead of us with two young daughters and a son. They recognized Hayes immediately and after much squealing and cooing in Japanese, they wrangled a photo out of him. As usual, he was amiable.
I stayed just off to the side, with the teenage son, bundled against the wind.
In the cab, Hayes rattled off some address in the Marais to the driver, and we rode in silence down the Champs-Élysées, through the Place de la Concorde, and along the Quai des Tuileries, continuing east.
At some point, I reached for his hand on the seat and he pulled it away. “You’re angry? With me? After what you just did, you’re angry with me?”
He was staring out the window at the Seine, the Musée d’Orsay, and points south. The light was beautiful at this time of day. Eventhrough the gray, everything was tinged gold and russet with the changing leaves. It dawned on me that I had not seen the late-afternoon sky in almost a week.
For a while, Hayes did not speak. And when he finally did, his voice was soft. “I’m angry at myself. I just wanted to spend the day with you.”
“I know. And I appreciate that. But you can’t just blow in making these grand gestures, like you’re in a Hugh Grant movie. You can’t…buyme… or my time.”
He turned to me then, gnawing at his bottom lip. “I’m sorry.”
“And I told you I had to work, and you didn’t respect that. Which is completely selfish and rude. And entitled.”
“I’m sorry,” he repeated.
“You can’t always get what you want, Hayes.”
He held my gaze for a minute, not saying anything. We were whizzing past the Louvre on the left.
“Do you evenwantthat painting?”
“It’s beautiful.”
“Itisbeautiful. But that’s beside the point. Purchasing art shouldn’t be something rash, or manipulative. It should be this pure thing.”
He smiled faintly. “You’re a bit of an idealist, you know.”
“Maybe.”
He was quiet again, but he reached out and hooked his pinky finger around mine on the car seat, and that tiny motion was enough.
“Why don’t you want to be seen with me?” His question took me by surprise. “Why? Why are you so uncomfortable? What are you ashamed of? What do you think will happen when people find out? We’re together, are we not?”
“It’s complicated, Hayes—”
“It’snot. I like you. You like me. What does it matter what anyone else thinks? Why do you care?”
“How do younot?”
