Page 76 of On the Line

My stomach drops and my eyes narrow, but I don’t respond.

Soph?

My mind travels quickly back to the times when Sophia has called him.

The sting of jealousy is sharp.

I thought we agreed not to see anyone else.

Why would he be so open about it?

Maybe it’s not what I think it is.

Once again, I feel like it’s not my place to ask so I just let the comment linger and burrow itself under my skin. My mood sours as we head inside, but I try to hide it as best I can.

Especially since I had been looking forward to today. No one, other than some of my classmates, has shown any interest in going to the Fine Arts Museum with me. Luckily, I was able to purchase a membership before money was tight, and I come here whenever I need my mind to pause.

I know the museum layout by heart now.

But it’s different bringing someone else with me, getting to experience it through their eyes.

Or more specifically: Experiencing it through Ozzy’s thoughtful aquamarine ones.

The bit of jealousy sticks with me, following me through the halls and exhibits, but I try to ignore it.

I study Ozzy while he’s, in turn, busy studying the Baroque and Rococo paintings in one of my favorite rooms. The walls of the room are a deep red, a rich contrast to the softer tones of the paintings themselves. The lights are low, and there’s a projector somewhere in the room, displaying images of trees and leaves swaying softly in the breeze higher up near the ceiling. It makes it feel like we’re in a private garden. I could spend hours in this one room alone.

I could spend hours watching Ozzy in this room too.

Especially when there’s not a hint of boredom on his face—something I feared would eventually happen.

His brows are furrowed in concentration, his hair curling around his ears as he leans closer to the painting in front of us. He reads the small plaque beside it and steps back to study the painting again.

I didn’t know I could find such a simple act so damn attractive.

Then jealousy gives me a little jab to remind me it's still there.

I imagine Ozzy experiencing this with someone else.

I imagine this person watching him like I am now.

The thought rewires something inside of me. Challenges me to act on these feelings I have for Ozzy. He might not be mine to claim, but surely I can claim him for the day, the week … maybe the month. If there’s any game to be won—I’m the one who’s going to win.

Linking our hands together, I gently tug him toward the next painting.

“What do you see?” I ask him.

“A girl on a swing.”

He’s not wrong, but I can tell he’s being glib on purpose and I swat his arm. He chuckles in response.

The painting is of a smiling young woman on a cushioned seat swing, surrounded by lush gardens, her pink gown billowing around her while she swings in mid-air. Her leg is raised up, causing her to lose her pink slipper.

It’s an innocent painting at first glance.

I lean into Ozzy’s body, my arm snaking around his waist, hooking my thumb in one of his belt loops, my mouth near his ear.

“The girl,” I say in a near whisper, “was a courtier’s mistress.” I point to the man in the painting. He’s lying in the gardens just below the swing, one arm outstretched toward her. “That’s him.” My hand climbs up Ozzy’s back, now on his nape, slowly raking my nails over his scalp. “Secretly admiring her from below.” I feel him shiver under my touch. “But,” I say, my mouth still close to his ear, nipping his earlobe. “You see how her leg is raised?” His Adam’s apple bobs on a hard swallow as he nods. My other hand flattens low on his stomach, my pinky finger caressing the skin just beneath his shirt. “Women back then didn’t wear anything under their gowns.” I pause, chuckling darkly. “A little bit like me today.”

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