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“Hey,” I said sweetly.
“You got me worried,” he said, taking my hand. He pulled me to his body and put his arms around my waist.
“You’re making me want to skip dinner,” he said, staring at my lips.
“We probably should not be doing this here,” I said and tried to walk away, but he pulled me back.
He stared into my eyes. His expression changed into something else.
“You were crying,” he said in a tone that carried anger and sadness.
His thumb reached out and brushed the corner of my eyes. I hoped he hadn’t cleaned the wing I’d created; it had taken three tries to get it right.
“I saw your mom—”
“She is not my mother,” I said quickly.
“What did she say to you?”
“The worst thing you could possibly say to someone you gave birth to. It only got to me for a moment. I’m fine now.” I smiled.
“Let’s go. I will take you somewhere else.”
I didn’t argue. I was tired of lying that her presence here wasn’t affecting me, especially after what she said to me. I took his hand, and we returned to the table to get our stuff. Tristan paid the bill, and we left.
“Can we go to a museum or an art gallery? I have no appetite to eat again,” I said when we entered the car.
“Let me see if any museum is open right now,” he said, bringing out his phone.
“You’re so sweet,” I said, poking him, and he rolled his eyes while I laughed.
He found one and gave Morris the address. I held on to Tristan’s arm and refused to pull away from him.
“Who was your celebrity crush when you were a teenager?” I asked, my fingers tracing his cuff link absentmindedly.
“What?” He laughed at my question.
“Just curious.” I shrugged. I was curious about a lot of things.
“Um … I can’t remember.”
“You’re lying.” I nudged him. “Tell me, who was it?”
He laughed briefly, trying to avoid the question.
“Jennifer Aniston,” he finally admitted.
“Hmm, teenage you had taste.”
“I still have taste,” he whispered close to my ear. His hand sliding to my hip in a possessive grip.
“Who was your celebrity crush, Morris?” I asked, looking for something to distract me from Tristan’s grasp on my hip.
Morris couldn’t remember the name of his celebrity crush, but the whole ride, he talked about how much he’d enjoyed watching her on TV. It was probably a celebrity from the ’80s.
The car came to a stop in front of a tall, massive building. We stepped out of the car and strolled down the cast-iron street with lamps lined on each side, their white light illuminating the streets. A few people hung around, taking pictures, while others just sat down, engrossed in a conversation. Tristan and I made our way into the building, his hand securing the small of my back.
“This is my first time in a museum,” I told him as we approached an art gallery.
