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“Come on, Jenson. You’re the one who wanted us to look all couple-y. What better way than to be seen out and about?”
I clench my teeth, seriously considering putting my foot down. But she looks so excited. There’s that light in her eye, which I haven’t seen since literally running into her in Boston.
“Okay. Fine. But I’m serious, later today I’ll need some time to get a few things done.”
Her radiant smile warms my chilled heart, and I try to ignore it. That arrow twangs a little triumphantly.
* * *
The museum is,thankfully, less than an hour away from the lodge, so I don’t need to listen to Zach schmooze everyone on the bus for too long. Mel holds my hand the whole time, her fingers wrapped in mine, and it’s oddly calming.
A bad idea,the voice in my head warns,after last night.
But I don’t care. I can’t be bothered with it right now, not when I’m mentally and physically exhausted.
“Ready?” Mel asks, practically jumping out of the seat when we get there. I follow her down the stairs, trailing the small group into the museum. It’s about what I expected—several stories high, a lot of white stone, and confusing signage.
“Let’s start in the Roman era.” She drags me in that direction, somehow able to make sense of the little pamphlet they’ve given us.
It’s a throwback to the one trip we took to Boston when we were kids. Or teens, I guess, before I got the nerve to ask her out. She’d laughed when I did, but nothing beat the thrill of her saying yes.
As we walk slowly through the exhibits, Mel chatters on about the history of certain pieces. I can barely absorb any of it, brows raised as she points and lectures, tugging me along, and jogging in her little heels.
Coming around a corner in the Hall of Modern Art, I catch Roy’s eye. He’s talking to two of the HR employees and shares a conspiratorial smile with me. He’s seen Mel’s enthusiasm and unsurprisingly, is completely charmed by it.
“Look at this!” she exclaims, glued to the floor.
I glance around in confusion. Then she points.
There’s an upside-down stack of eight chairs above us, hanging from the ceiling. I stare up at it in confusion.
“What the hell?”
Mel nudges me, a sassy pout on her lips. “It’s art.”
“Okay, but what’s it mean?”
A guilty look crosses her face and I smirk. She doesn’t know, either.
“We’re not meant to understand everything,” she says airily, nose turned up and marching toward the next section.
We end up in a small private place that feels more comfortable. It’s all local photography from a man Mel apparently recognizes.
“He grew up on a farm,” she explains quietly, “and started taking long exposures at night. Only where light was found. So, streetlamps, people’s houses when they left a light on, tunnels.”
“It’s a little creepy.”
But I find myself looking at a large photo of a classic car under a streetlamp, half covered by a tarp. I’m not sure what’s so captivating about it, but the shadows stir me. The possibility, maybe.
When I find Mel, she’s stock-still in front of another large photo. I know immediately what drew her to it.
The little house, hazy blue light spilling from one window, looks like Jodie’s old house in Harwinton. The same concrete front steps. It’s missing the laurel-tree and Mel’s rollerblades, but otherwise, I can see that it hurts her as much as it pulls her in.
She wraps her arms around herself.
“I don’t know about this guy,” I say, trying to break the chill that’s settled in suddenly. “Seems like a sellout, making money on strangers’ private lives.”
The intensity of Mel’s angry glare surprises me so much that I almost take a step back.
