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He squints at me. I can tell that he is trying to tune in, but not finding a lot of interest to hang onto.
“I grew up in Chattanooga,” I begin, pleased to see that intrigues him right away.
“I grew up in Paducah,” he smiles.
“Kentucky?” I ask.
“You bet.”
We smile at each other for a few seconds. We both know that this is the first time we have talked about this stuff.
“My mom was a nurse,” I continue as we walk through this gallery toward the smaller one beyond. “And my dad was an accountant for a small manufacturing company that made tables.”
“They’re not artists?” Spencer asks.
“You know, it’s funny, that is the number one thing people ask me. But no. I didn’t ‘get it’ from anywhere, though I think I know where it comes from.”
He reaches forward to open a door for me, automatically. Such good manners.
This gallery is dark, with spotlights on the walls. It is empty right now. I think it will work.
“So where does it come from?” he continues.
It makes me feel good that he asks. I am glad he is interested.
“Well, I don’t think art is a talent, exactly. I think it is a sort of disease.”
“Ha!” he laughs, with the sound echoing all around us.
“No, really,” I protest in the darkness as he slides around behind me and wraps his arms over my shoulders, nuzzling my hair. “It’s a way of looking at the world, like a language. But it takes a long time to learn how to speak that language. Why would someone want to do that? I think it’s like an obsession or something. Like people who could be obsessed about one thing—my mom about medicine, my dad about numbers—they could be obsessed about something else. It’s the obsession that is inherited.”
“I think you’re brilliant,” he whispers, and I can hear the smile in his voice.
I turn around in his arms, reaching over his neck to slide my fingers against the back of his hair. I love the way the short, gelled pieces feel so spiky and ticklish against my palms.
There in the darkness, he kisses me slowly, his eyes closed. I inhale him, finding that mountaineer’s rope that connects us and sliding along it, closer and closer to him.
My body trembles against his, submitting bit by bit. In his arms I feel weightless and secure. My mind calms. I’m safe.
“Oh, excuse me!” comes a sudden voice.
Spencer reluctantly pulls back and sets me down. We both look in the direction of the voice.
A woman emerges from the corner, swathed in a spiral of charcoal gray toile that leaves her face exposed.
“Seattle?” I ask, utterly confused. “Have you been here the whole time?”
“Well, um, yes, now that you mention it,” she answers quickly.
She hustles forward, but can’t move her knees very much because of the smoke-colored fabric. She holds out a hand toward Spencer.
“I’m Seattle Chen,” she offers with her lips pursed.
I give him a warning glance, hoping to God he is not going to fall into her trap. But he is already suspicious on his own, remembering her from the club.
“Lindy’s roommate,” he says in a tense tone. “Spencer Thompson.”
“That’s right! Youwarbler!” she replies nonsensically. “IamLindy’s roommate, and it just feels like forever since you’ve been home! You are okay? Haven’t been kidnapped by the, uh, football team?”
