Page 203 of End Game

“Last spring.”

I look at him.

He looks back.

“You remember too much.”

“I remember things that interest me.”

The answer lands quietly enough that I don't think he intends it to be romantic.

That does not stop it from being romantic—or deep.

I get out before he can watch me react.

The gallery is small, which helps. No opening-night crowd, no event, no wine glasses or strangers pretending to understand pieces because they're afraid of looking stupid.

Just art.

Paintings, mixed media, photography, some sculpture.

The current exhibit is mostly contemporary work from regional artists, and Ronan lets me move through it at whatever pace I want.

He doesn't ask me to explain every reaction.

That's one of the things I like about him.

Most people who know I draw assume I want to analyze art out loud. Ronan doesn't. He reads every card beside every piece because of course he does, occasionally makes a comment about technique or history, and otherwise leaves me alone with it.

At one point I stop in front of a charcoal portrait.

It's rough and unfinished around the shoulders, the artist letting the lines dissolve into the paper instead of closing the figure in.

Ronan stops beside me. “You like that.”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

I study it for another few seconds. “They knew where to stop.”

He looks from the portrait to me.

I gesture toward the bottom edge. “They could've kept going. Finished the shirt, the background, cleaned up all the construction marks. But it would've made it worse.”

“Because your eye fills in the rest.”

“Kind of.” I shove my hands into my pockets. “It gives it somewhere to breathe.”

Ronan looks at the drawing again. Then he says, “That sounds like it would be difficult for you.”

I laugh before I can stop myself. “Fuck you.”

His mouth curves.

He doesn't need to explain what he meant.

I spend half my life trying to finish things nobody asked me to finish.