“I wish!” I say, before I can stop myself.
“What’s stopping you?”
I look down at the smooth, polished floor.
“My father never allowed it. He thought it was stupid and pointless.”
“Let me see your sketchbook,” he says.
“No!” I say, a little too loud. “It wouldn’t interest you . . .”
“It does, though,” he says, grinning at me. “I’d rather see it than anything else in here.”
I laugh and shake my head.
“It doesn’t hold a candle to anything here,” I tell him.
But somehow, under the influence of that disarming smile, and that persuasive voice, I find myself opening my bag and handing him the sketchbook.
He opens it up, turning through the pages. Most people would flip through a few, then say “Very nice!” and hand it back to you. But he goes through each and every one, looking carefully at each drawing, pausing a long time on the ones he likes best.
“What’s that?” he says, pointing to one of the last sketches. I was working on it this morning in a cafe on Sadovaya Street. But I can’t possibly explain it.
When those men broke into the police station, one of them had a mark on the back of his hand. He had tried to cover it with something—concealer, probably. I think it was a tattoo. All one color, in black or navy ink. At first, I thought it represented a crest, maybe a family crest. Now I think it might have been a cathedral spire . . . I’ve been drawing and re-drawing versions of it, but since I couldn’t see it clearly, it’s like trying to remember something from a dream.
“It’s nothing,” I tell him. “Just a design I saw somewhere.”
“You’re wrong,” he tells me.
I blink, confused.
“About what?”
“That your work doesn’t belong here. I don’t know shit about art, but I know that yours is beautiful, and it makes me feel things. And I’ve never seen anything that looked quite like it. Isn’t that the point? To make something beautiful in a new way?”
I laugh.
“I guess so. Or make something strikingly ugly. Either one is good. You just don’t want to be boring.”
“You’re not boring,” he says, looking in my eyes as he hands back the book.
Oh. My. God. Did I just get flirted with, for the very first time?
No. He’s too hot. He wouldn’t flirt with me.
But still, his thick, warm fingers brush over mine as I take the sketchbook.
Whaaaat is happening . . .
I tuck a strand of hair back behind my ear, finding it much more comfortable to look down at his beat-up boots instead of into his face. I mean, I want to see that face. I want to look at that teasing, warm smile. I want to look into those amber-colored eyes that remind me a little bit of a sleepy lion . . . But every time I try to glance up, I lose about twenty IQ points and my tongue forgets how to form words.
“Where are you headed?” he asks me.
“I, uh . . . just . . . around here . . .” I gesture idiotically to the rest of the museum.
“Can I walk with you?” he says. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to see in here. I mean, I know it’s all famous and important and all that, but what’s actually the best stuff?”
“I guess it depends what you’re interested in,” I say, smiling at him.
“Is this what you like best? This Egypt stuff?”
“Yes!”
I say it so excitedly that he laughs, and I’m embarrassed again. But he’s got such a warm, genuine laugh. I don’t think he’s making fun of me.
“How come?” he asks me.
“Well, uh . . . sorry,” I flush. “What’s your name? I just realized I never asked you.”
“Dom,” he says. “Dominik, really. But I just go by Dom.”
“Lara,” I say.
He reaches out to shake my hand, those big, strong fingers wrapping all the way around mine. His hand is way bigger than mine. It swallows it whole. He squeezes just hard enough for me to feel that he’s giving me about one percent power.
“Lara,” he repeats.
My name comes out as a kind of growl in his low, husky voice. If you put that sound on a loop, I would listen to it all day long.
“So, go on,” he says.
I totally forgot what we were talking about.
Oh yeah, Egypt.
“My mom used to read me all these books about ancient Egypt,” I tell him. “Plus, we used to watch that movie The Mummy—have you seen it? With Brendan Fraser and Rachel Weisz?”
“I watched that every Svyatki,” he says.
“No you didn’t!”
“I really did. I fucking hate scary movies—that’s the only one I could handle, because it’s funny, too.”
That’s right, it’s not scary. Except that one awful part. When the walls of the tomb come down and Beni is trapped inside in the dark. And the scarabs start swarming him . . .
I give an atavistic shudder. Luckily, Dom doesn’t seem to notice.
“My brother and I would watch it while we ate our candy and cakes,” he says.
“You have a brother?”
“Yeah, he’s older than me.”
“So do I!” I say. A stab in my chest, high in the left ribs. “Just one older brother.”
“We’re the same, then,” Dom says.
I doubt that very much. But god, I wish it were true.
“What’s your brother like?” Dom says.
“He’s the best person in the world,” I tell him. “So kind. Such a gentle soul. He’s always taken care of me, protected me. He’s the one who showed me how to draw in the first place. He let me use all his paper and pencils and paints. He used to hold my hand when I was little, to help me make smooth lines. He said there were no mistakes, just practice . . .”
Dom grins.
“Well, shit,” he says. “My brother’s not that nice. Now I’m jealous.”
“Sem is ten times the artist I am. He’s the talented one, really. He always draws portraits . . . they’re so lifelike, but even more real than life . . . they show everything about a person . . .”
Oh, god. Tears are running down my face.
Dom looks at me, stricken. He puts one heavy, warm arm around my shoulders, pulling me close against his side.
“Hey,” he says. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m so sorry,” I try to wipe my cheeks with both palms.
“You don’t have to be sorry! What is it?”
“I just . . . just miss him . . . He couldn’t come to St. Petersburg with us.”
“It’s only a few hours away!” Dom says. “He’ll come visit you, won’t he?”
I wipe my face harder on the back on my arm, cheeks flaming with embarrassment.
“I’m really sorry, this is so humiliating.” I gulp.
“Come on,” Dom says. “Let me get you a drink. And some food.”
He leads me toward the museum cafe, his arm still tight around my shoulders. It’s crazy, I don’t even know this man. But I’ve never felt anything as comforting as his mass pressed against me, those thick, strong arms wrapping me up tight.