Page 21 of You Were Mine

The second I open the door to the apartment building, the last lingering breath of autumn drifts in. The air is cool and tainted with the first edge of winter. It’s a good night for walking. An even better night for stargazing; just not here. There are no stars here, only the radiant lights of buildings and cars. Those lights are beautiful, too, but they can never replace the stars on a cold, clear night.

I shove my hands into my coat pockets and start walking.

Once I arrive at the gallery and climb to the top of the outside stairs, I pause by one of the large pillars. It’s a magnificent building, tall and white, with fluted columns, decorated with elegantly carved flowers and leaves. The ceiling is high and vaulted; inside, it’s painted in the likeness of Vincent van Gogh’sStarry Night. Sure, that’s the most popular postmodernist painting there is, and it’s beautiful up there.

I lean back against the massive column and watch the cars pass on the street below. In hindsight, I probably should have gotten together with Brandon and figured out where we were meeting. I just sort of assumed he’d meet me outside. He could be inside already, though. I pull out my phone and shoot him a text; then I return to watching the cars drive by.

I can’t believe Logan is staying home. Is he really fine with that? Sure, he says he is, but he never stays home on Halloween. It’s his favorite day of the year.

Maybe I’m just being paranoid. Logically, I should be able to accept that he’s fine with it. I know Logan is right and has the mature response to all this. I’m an adult who can make my own decisions, and whether Logan wants to admit it or not, that’s the way things are. I shake my head, as if that will clear my thoughts. I probably shouldn’t be thinking about Logan when I’m on a date with another man.

Or about to be on a date with another man; or anyway, waiting on another man.

I take in a deep breath and let it out, watching the air mist white before me. Why is this all so confusing? Wasn’t I super happy that Brandon wanted to go on a date with me? I’m quite sure I was; ecstatic even, flattered. And now, it feels like everything has changed suddenly and dramatically. Why? Because Logan said he loved me.

But what he said shouldn’t matter, because I don’t love him that way. Yet I can’t deny that I feel a softness and warmth and sparks inside when I think of him.

“Mark!” Brandon calls out.

I jerk my head up, a bit embarrassed. I hope Brandon hasn’t been calling me for ages, and I just didn’t notice. That doesn’t seem to be the case, though, because he says nothing about menot hearing him. He smiles easily and waves. Brandon looks predictably handsome. For a moment, I wryly wish this affair had been a costume party. Then, maybe I wouldn’t feel so out of place…or guilty.

Even my untrained and fashion ignorant eye can tell Brandon’s suit is much more expensive than mine, that I vaguely recall having bought on clearance at J.C. Penny. The suit was a good deal, which seemed like a great idea at the time. Sure, I dealt with Logan’s looks of mock-horror and snide comments, but overall, I just rolled my eyes and went on sporting my cheap suit. No one ever said anything. Anyway, everyone knows that most college students are broke.

“You look fantastic!” Brandon says as he walks towards me, “I love how your suit brings out your eyes.”

Riiight.

I wonder just how poor I actually look to him. Clearly, I don’t embarrass him, or he wouldn’t have invited me in the first place. But I still wonder how much he can tell just by looking at me. You know, me the peasant. I swallow around the lump in my throat.

“Thanks! You look amazing, too.” I reply lamely. “I have to get a book on conversation."We embrace and I kiss him, maybe to give me some additional courage for the evening ahead, or to help ease my guilt of leaving Logan at home, more likely both.

The only rich person I know how to talk to is Logan, and that’s because he’s Logan. And here, I’m going to throw myself into a room full of rich people that I don’t know, unless I’ve read about them somewhere. I’ve never felt so inadequate in my life. Thank God, we’re going to this gala inside a gallery. At least, I’ll hopefully be able to hold my own conversing about art. That’s better than nothing.

“Are you ready to go in?” Brandon asks.

No. But the alternative is standing at the top of the steps to the art museum for an awkward amount of time, while I—hopefully—manage to get ready.

“Why, of course!,” I say.

We walk inside, and the gallery is absolutely beautiful; not that I had expected anything less. There isn’t much in the way of Halloween decorations, though. I suppose that makes sense. The gala is a charity event for the gallery, but somehow, I had expected there to besomething; some pumpkins or orange and black spotlights; maybe a big spider dropping on your head from the doorway? Perhaps Logan could have decorated.

This looks like it could be any other night at the gallery. Sheesh. Why bother having aHalloweengala if you aren’t going to really showcase the holiday, though? I wrinkle my nose.

“Oh! I should help you network,” Brandon says while taking my hand and guiding me further into the space. “Come on. I’ll introduce you to some people.”

Right. That was one of the perks of coming to the gala, but now that I’m here, networking sounds dreadful.

“Why hello! Oh, this suit? Oh, Jacque Pennevous, (or something French).”

Maybe I’m just bad at deciding what I want in general. I sigh and look up at van Gogh’sStarry Night. That job must have cost a fortune. I wonder if it was a single artist or an entire team that worked on it. Probably the latter.

My phone buzzes. I pull it out and roll my eyes at the stream of texts.

“How is it?”...

“I’ve never been a fan of galas, but”…

“To each their own”…

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