Page 53 of One to Watch

“I’m afraid that at the end of all this, I’ll be alone. And all the people who’ve said horrible things about my body will say, ‘See? We were right about her. We were right about all of it.’”

“And if you never really take a risk, you’ll never have the chance to find out if they were?” Asher asked pointedly.

“You’re going to have to stop doing that.” Bea blushed.

“Doing what?”

“Seeing past my tough exterior.”

“I like your tough exterior.” Asher’s lips quirked in a small smile. “When I look at you, I like everything I see.”

When they walked out of the museum into the crisp spring night, Bea wasn’t ready to leave. The producers told her they had time for one more stop, so Bea led Asher to the cavernous Resnick Pavilion, which had a new exhibit showcasing some of the museum’s more controversial works of the last sixty years.

“This looks remarkably like a pot I made at summer camp,” Asher said, pointing to a lumpy brown sculpture.

“It’s a Claes Oldenburg—a baked potato.”

“I should have said mine was a baked potato. It looked like one.”

“You did pottery at summer camp?”

“You’re surprised I wasn’t out playing soccer? I would have sat all day by myself with a book if they’d let me.”

“Sounds like we were pretty alike as kids,” she said.

“I’m glad one of us grew out of it.” He rested a hand on her shoulder. After all the semi-intentional arm brushes and leg nudges of the evening thus far, the warm weight of his palm felt full, somehow, or even heavy—and she loved it. She wanted more.

The sound of 1940s swing music floated toward them from the back of the pavilion, and they wandered toward it to discover the source. It turned out to be a life-size sculpture of a 1938 Dodge Coupe, placed on a plot of fake grass strewn with empty beer bottles. The door was open to reveal two figures in the backseat—a woman lying back with one knee propped up, and a man on top of her fabricated in chicken wire, completely transparent except for his left hand, opaque and white, prone between her thighs. The music was part of the exhibit, the soundtrack of the couple’s lovemaking.

Bea read from the description mounted near the sculpture. “They exhibited this in the 1960s, and the County Board of Supervisors tried to make them remove it. They called it pornography. But the museum refused—so they had to keep the car door closed if children were present.”

Asher smiled at her. “Pretty sexy stuff.”

“Did you just say ‘sexy’ to me?”

He laughed and extended his arm. “Do you want to dance?”

“Are you serious?”

He nodded, and Bea let him pull her in, his hand on the small of her back, his Old Spice scent near enough to inhale. He was a remarkably good dancer—strong frame, sure step—and his hands felt amazing sliding over the smooth silk of her blouse.

“How can you dance like this?” She gazed at him with wonder.

“I was raised going to temple because my dad is Jewish, but my mom is Chinese—she’d never been to a bar mitzvah. When I started getting invitations, she was sure all the other kids would know how to dance and I’d look like an idiot. So she made me take ballroom lessons at the senior center.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope. I was the twelve-year-old Fred Astaire of Tarrytown, and I spent my Tuesday afternoons dancing with old ladies. Between that and the pottery, I was a pretty popular kid.”

They laughed, and Bea felt him bring her a little closer. Her breath got quicker, and he gently squeezed her waist. The music stopped—the song was over, and there was a pause before the next one began. Bea knew what would happen if this were actually a real date, if they were somewhere else, if he were braver, or if she were, if—

He dropped his hands abruptly, jerked back and left her moored in infinite space, the cameras jutting through, black and claustrophobic as she felt the blood rush to her face, her breathing fast and shallow.

“I’m sorry,” he said dumbly. Bea stood stock-still, trying to ward off whatever she was feeling until she was anywhere else, wishing Marin could be here to witness this moment so she would never shove Bea off a cliff into abject humiliation ever again.

“Okay!” said a producer. “Let’s take that again, get you dancing to the next song, then we can slow it down for the end-of-date kiss—you guys ready to go?”

Asher looked pained. “I can’t. I’m sorry.” He turned to Bea. “I’m sorry.”