I wonder if Wyatt ever experiences that.
Thinking about Wyatt sparks heat in the pit of my stomach all over again. Maybe we’ll run into each other. And it’s so hard to resist the urge to pull out my phone and text him and ask what time he’s going…just so I can make sure I’m still around when he gets there.
The gallery is one of the fancy ones, the kind where people are mostly buying the art to launder their money and avoid paying taxes. I’d say I hate it on principle, but let’s be real—I’d club a baby seal to have my work displayed in a place like this. (Principles do not, in fact, pay bills.)
Ophelia, seeing the look on my face, rolls her eyes. “It’s obnoxious, I know. But apparently Carolina is really good, so I’m trying not to prejudge.”
“I believe it. Getting into a place like this is a big deal.”
There’s an actual, real-life art bouncer at the door. He’s not checking names on a list or anything—even schmancy places like this are still open to the public—but he is leering at everyone as if to say, Touch anything with your pleb hands, and I’ll cut them off.
“What, something in my teeth?” I mutter to Ophelia as we sidle past him, which earns me a snicker (Ophelia) and a glare (art bouncer).
The ex-girlfriend’s girlfriend’s exhibition is a strange one. Mostly paintings, spaced evenly along the ecru walls and perfectly lit. But there are some mixed-media pieces as well, like the green canvas that serves as a vertical platter bearing a collection of ivory bones: half rabbit, says the caption, half hawk. Or the one that features red paint on red paint, slithering in globs and clots down the canvas. A careless scrap of fabric dangles from one corner, trapped by a wad of near-black acrylic.
“I’m gonna go say hi to Patty and Carolina,” Ophelia says, and I nod, too fixated on the gore painting to do much else.
I peer closer, my hands locked behind my back to help me resist the almost-overwhelming urge to touch, to see if the paint is still wet. It looks visceral, like the product of a fresh kill.
“I had a nightmare that looked like this once,” says a familiar voice, and I jerk my head up to meet Wyatt’s gaze.
I should say something clever and insightful about the piece, but of course my troll brain has other ideas. “You’re actually here!” A split second later, embarrassment catches up with me. “Sorry. I mean…Hi. Of course you’re here. And same.”
At least he smiles, even if I suspect he’s just indulging me. “Sometimes I exist in places besides campus and gay clubs. Do you know the artist?”
“Only in degrees of Kevin Bacon. She’s my roommate’s ex-girlfriend’s new girlfriend.”
“I feel like I need to be better at math to process what you just said.”
“Or at least be really good at those riddles where you have to figure out how many daughters a man has based off their eye colors.”
“Hate those.”
We examine the painting again. It’s honestly hard to look away, like trying to ignore someone bleeding to death right in front of you.
“What do you think it means?” Wyatt says.
I tilt toward the canvas. “I don’t know. It’s giving menstrual blood. Are those actual human hairs?”
Wyatt moves closer; his shoulder grazes mine, just for a moment, as he leans in. “Maybe it’s a still life of someone having their head smashed open with a brick.”
I snort, then quickly press my hand over my mouth and glance around to see if anyone noticed. Big names come to these. Big names like, well, Wyatt Cole…although he certainly isn’t judging me. He catches my gaze and winks, and my heart does this little flutter that is both expected and completely, damningly inappropriate.
It’s getting really hard to stay mad at him.
“Mr. Cole?” someone says, and we both turn to find a slim woman in a pencil skirt and hipster glasses. She smiles and gestures behind her at a knot of people near the bone piece, all of them watching Wyatt with ill-disguised hope written across their faces. “Sorry to interrupt, but I would love to introduce you to a few people, if you don’t mind…?”
Wyatt actually hesitates, which I’m tempted to read too far into. But then he nods, says, “Of course,” and passes me an apologetic glance before the pencil skirt leads him away. I watch the social climbers envelop him into their nest like magpies who’ve found something shiny.
I can’t keep staring at this one painting all night, no matter how violent it is, so I make myself wander. The rest of Carolina’s work is similar, all variations on a homicidal theme. I’m starting to wish I knew this girl, because she seems weird and I like that.
I’m examining another intensely morbid piece when someone steps up beside me, close enough that I can smell their cedarwood cologne. I all but assume it’s Wyatt, have already opened my mouth to make a snarky comment about roadkill—only it isn’t Wyatt at all.
“Can you imagine hanging this in your dining room?” the man says, nodding toward the canvas. “It’d certainly be a conversation starter.”
I stare at him for a moment, trying to figure out if he’s someone I’m supposed to recognize on sight. Probably. Feels like this place is full of Big Deals.
“I’m not inviting anyone over who doesn’t find possum appetizing,” I say. “I have standards.”
It earns a laugh, at least. I examine this newcomer, trying to place him. He’s dressed as if he just came from a board meeting. Maybe he’s an agent or something?
“I don’t think I’ve seen you around before,” the guy says, shifting away from the painting—toward me. As if I were the art. “I can’t say I have a knack for faces, but I’d remember yours.”
Heat flushes up the back of my neck fast and I glance away, toward the canvas, hoping the fall of my hair might hide the color in my cheeks. Maybe I’m not used to being flirted with. Or maybe it’s just the venue and the guy. I’m not used to guys dressed like that flirting with me.
“I’m new in town,” I say, and finally wrangle my nerves enough to look back at him. “I’m studying at Parker.”
Both his brows go up. “Ah. Excellent program. What field?”
“Photography.”
“I’ll have to be on the lookout for your first gallery opening,” he says. Those pale eyes of his are twinkling. My lord, he’s good.
I’m tempted to wrap my arms around my stomach, a reflexive, insecure gesture that would say far more about me than I want to confess. I have to concentrate hard on keeping my arms loose and lax at my sides. “Maybe. We’ll see. New York standards are pretty high.”