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LINDY
Spencer holds my hand as he walks me to the Forrester Gallery building on the north side of campus.
Holding hands. We are justholding handsas we walk, just like normal people. Spencer acknowledges people he knows, but mostly he just sweeps the crowd as though he is my bodyguard or something, and holds me close with his hand protectively around mine.
But not too tight around my hand. Gentle. Like his big hand has a baby chick in it or a turtle that just came out of the shell and is still a bit soft. Like that.
Bubbles of yellow joy keep bursting in my chest. What is this feeling? When people look at me, I sort of want to say, “Right? Did you see that?” Like there are thought bubbles over everybody’s head. Like there are cartoon hearts in cloud formations, pulsing.
I know, it’s ridiculous. But I haven’t held anybody’s hand since high school. That is just as ridiculous.
If I don’t think about it too hard, it is as natural as breathing. Once I think about it, suddenly I forget how elbows work, and my knees start poking out at funny angles. I turn into some kind of mechanical disaster.
The trick is, don’t think about it.
“What are you thinking about?” Spencer smirks.
I almost start to laugh. “I’m thinking about how I am tryingnotto think,” I confess. “Just trying to walk along the quad with my big handsome boyfriend and not fall on my face or anything.”
“You want me to carry you?” he offers.
“Yeah, smart guy, I do!” I counter, though I know he wasn’t entirely serious.
Laughing, I climb onto his back. He grabs me behind my thighs and pulls me tight around his narrow waist, then begins trotting the rest of the way to the gallery.
It really feels like I am riding some muscular wild animal. I can feel the muscles working in his haunches with every step. He is so magnificent.
Images of yesterday shoot through my mind, making me gasp and hold him tighter. So naughty. So wrong! But so delicious I squirm against him.
“Here we are,” he announces, far too soon.
I climb down from his back, making a mental note to definitely do that again. It might be juvenile, but it feels good. I guess Dean Rhodes was right: there really is something to be said for not thinking about everything too much.
“So this is the Forrester Gallery,” he muses as we walk through the front door.
“You’ve never been here before?” I ask, swiping my ID through the security turnstile.
“Only once. No, twice. Once for a orientation walk-through. And once for a cocktail party after last year’s playoffs. It’s a nice place.”
“It’s an amazing place,” I correct him. “It’s one of the main reasons that I came here. Not every university has a gallery like this. Not even close.”
“Don’t they?” he asks, quirking an eyebrow.
I walk backward so I can face him as we cross the large first gallery, my arms extended over my head.
“Those skylights, they are engineered to filter the light in here so that it is always perfectly even, no shadows. You notice?”
He looks around. “Oh. No, I didn’t,” he admits.
“Right, so every piece looks its best. There is no bad spot in this gallery. And it’s really tall. You can bring in works from any other gallery no matter how big. Not to mention, art school students can make anything that can fit in here. There are no constraints about size.”
“Yeah, okay, that’s pretty cool,” he admits.
We walk into the next gallery, a smaller space hung with art students’ work. Seniors. It’s a collection of watercolors, mostly abstract, with some still lifes and one large landscape.
Immediately, Spencer’s eyes go kind of unfocused. He is bored.
“So, not every work of art is going to be great,” I begin to explain. “But every work of art has a conversation to offer. Even if it’s not the most sophisticated conversation, the artist is trying to tell you something.”
