Sunlight pierces the slats of the barn, and I am looking up at the Rembrandt from within the tangle of blankets. Peter is awake beside me. He’s propped up on one elbow and is looking down at me. I remember the kiss, and my eyes fix on his lips. I force myself to meet his eyes. He doesn’t say anything. Neither do I.
I could joke, laugh it off.
I could explain myself, though I don’t have a decent explanation.
I could pretend it didn’t happen.
I could ask him what he’s thinking, why he kissed me back and why he pulled away.
I could ask if he still thinks I’m beautiful and clever and funny, or if he ever did.
I could ask if he wants to kiss me again.
I don’t do any of these things. Instead I draw my knees up to my chest and hug them. He’s still looking at me, so I look at the Rembrandt. “That’s Rembrandt.” I point to one of the figures on a boat. “He painted himself into the painting. There are fourteen figures. Jesus, twelve disciples, and Rembrandt.”
“Had a high opinion of himself.”
I point to a Picasso. “That one was dumped into the trash after its theft, but the Dumpster was empty when it was searched.” I point next at a golden, glittering portrait of a woman, a painting by Klimt. “Nazis stole that. Confiscated it. It was supposed to be donated to a gallery in Austria, I think, but it never made it.”
“You know all of these?”
I study the sparkling gold in the Klimt painting. “Saddest thing about stolen art is that only the thief can view them. They’re meant to be seen.”
“You’re seeing them.”
“Yes.” He’s not looking at the art; he’s looking at me. I want to ask him what he’s thinking, but I’m a coward so I don’t.
“You’re an artist.” It wasn’t a question.
I shrug and wish I’d chosen another topic. “I’m not a Rembrandt or Picasso. Not even close. For a while, I tried to find a job as a graphic artist...but I wasn’t lucky.”
“You should paint here.”
“I’m painting the house. Or I plan to.”
“You should paint this.” He gestured at the masterpieces on the wall. “You have time. You’ve bought yourself time.”
For an instant, I am tempted. I think of the attic room and my vision for it, filled with easels and paints. But it’s not realistic. “IfVictoria and Sean don’t change their minds and raise a mob instead, andifI had a century or two worth of art classes, then yes, but you said yourself the lie wouldn’t buy much time.”
“I can’t help with the art classes.” Shedding the sheets, he stands. He’s shirtless and as stunningly beautiful as the masterpieces around him. “But I can check on the existence of a mob.” After an instant’s hesitation, he holds out his hand. I take it, and he draws me up. I’m standing close to him. His body feels warm. He’s looking at me, and I wonder if he’s thinking about the taste of my lips the way I’m thinking about his.
If he wants to pretend it didn’t happen, then...
No.
I am not going to feel like a teenager, awkward and wondering what he thinks of me. I tilt my head up and look directly into his eyes. “If I kiss you again, will you turn away from me?”
His eyes widen slightly. He licks his lips. I can tell that every muscle in him is tense as if he wants to run, and I suddenly feel like I want to laugh. He can’t be afraid of me. I’m the most powerless person in this entire town. I have less information, less experience, less everything than anyone here. Yet he’s looking at me as if I’m a rattlesnake. Except I don’t think he wants to run from me.
I take a step closer, experimentally.
He flinches back.
And then it’s suddenly not funny. “It’s okay. We can pretend it didn’t happen. Let’s go find Claire.” I start to turn away, and he catches my arm. He draws me closer, and then he’s kissing me.
I sink into his arms, and he melts against me.
The barn door bursts open. “Peter! Lauren!” Claire races in. “Victoria and Sean did it! And people believed them and itworked!The void is back where it belongs. Everyone’s gathering in the streets. They’re actually having a party. There’s music. And food. And a man is making balloon animals!” She holds out a pink balloon dog. One leg has popped, but the knots keep the rest intact.
