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I swallow my urge to laugh and smile. “Thanks for the tip, Kyle.”
“No problem!”
Conversations like these are probably my favorite thing about the little kids.
They’re so innocent and sweet, and yet they never hesitate to tell you exactly what’s on their young minds. They also never miss an opportunity to throw their parents or siblings under the proverbial bus.
The warning bell chimes through the intercom, and my students stand up excitedly from their seats. With a lot of deep breaths and grit, I wrangle them into a line and lead them to their homeroom.
Once they’re safely inside Mrs. Thomas’s room, I head back to my classroom and decide to make an early escape for the day. No music lessons on the books for the afternoon means I’m a free woman until Monday.
Five minutes before the end-of-day bell rings, I’m turning off the lights in my classroom, waving goodbye to the ladies in the front office, and walking out the front doors of the school before anyone can stop me for small talk.
The subway station is a short walk, five blocks or so, and once I make my way down the stairs, I wait on the platform for the next train and check my phone for emails, missed calls, and text messages.
The monthly school newsletter from our principal.
A text from Lily.
A missed call from my mom.
A text from Sally.
The last one makes me decide to avoid all of them for now.
I open my purse, dump my phone inside, and then look up and directly into the familiar golden-brown eyes of Ansel Bray.
My heart kicks up in speed and I blink a few times to comprehend if what I’m seeing is real or a hallucination. I know I’ve been thinking about him a lot—okay, nonstop—but what are the odds that he’d be here, in the Bronx, at the same subway station as me?
Probably about as good as you ending up in one of his paintings…
The ridiculous, unbidden thought almost makes me laugh.
God, he looks handsome. The same leather jacket. The same boots. The same perfectly messy hair. And those eyes.
Hi, he mouths toward me, and a smile kisses my lips without my permission.
God, who is this man? I silently wonder to myself. Who is he and where did he come from?
After I got home from Bistro two nights ago, I finally gave in and internet-stalked him. Per my Google research, Ansel Bray is a thirty-four-year-old, world-renowned artist whose paintings sell for insane amounts of money. But it was only after he was in a tragic car accident and lost his sight that his success really skyrocketed.
Some people even call him the Leonardo da Vinci of his time.
He’s also the brother of Bram Bray, a member of the rock group New Rules. Which is…big news for a fan of New Rules like me.
And now, a modern-day da Vinci with his brand-new eyes and his handsome smile is walking toward me.
His long strides are unhurried but unbelievably efficient, and before I know it, he’s standing right beside me.
He slides his hands into his pockets and stares toward the tracks. It’s only then that I notice the earbud cord that peeks out from beneath his black hoodie.
He doesn’t say anything, just stares expectantly into the dark void of the tunnel, and I don’t say anything either.
Normally, I’d feel compelled to say something, do something, but rather than give in, I decide to trust that his silence has some sort of purpose.
I don’t know why he’s here, inside this subway station, waiting beside me, but I can only assume it’s because he needs to be somewhere.
Maybe he’s headed to his studio?
Does he even have an art studio?
Of course, he has an art studio, Indy. He’s a famous painter. It’s not like he’s creating masterpieces in his fucking kitchen.
A small sliver of relief fills my chest when the lights in the station flicker. I’m committed to the silence, but that doesn’t mean it’s easy to go against my habit to fill it with words.
With an audible screech, my train arrives, and I step inside.
Ansel steps inside too.
The doors close behind us.
I sit down in an empty seat.
He sits down beside me.
I look at him expectantly, search his steady gaze to try to will him to end my torture, but he doesn’t cave. Instead, he smiles this soft, warm, cozy, fucking perfect smile, and I break out in goose bumps.
What is it about this guy?
Ansel slides his earbuds out of his ears, and before I know it, he’s slipping them inside mine.
“Brindo” by Devendra Banhart, a song I know to my bones, starts up, and my heart threatens to crawl up into my throat as the music both haunts and soothes my nerves.
I’m surprised he knows this song, much less has it on his phone.
His brown eyes lock with mine, and my breath stutters inside my lungs.
