Page 120 of Deliverance

A man who’s not afraid to reveal his weaknesses or the lack of knowledge in certain areas is a rare species these days.

“I’m an excellent teacher.” I smile and bring my face to his, then kiss him on the lips. It’s quick and it’s innocent, but the soft feel of his mouth on mine is more than enough to stir a small typhoon of sensations I haven’t been able to ignore lately. A blend of longings. The desire to be touched and hugged.

The kiss seems to stun Zander, because his face stills, his eyes searching mine. The car comes to a stop and the driver darts outside and around to open the door, and the moment is ruined.

Unlike this morning, I’m dressed in a pair of jeans, a sweater, and my jacket, and the icy wind doesn’t get a chance to get to me as we rush into the museum.

The building itself is cylindrical and widens at the top. A continuous spiral that hosts the galleries goes all the way up until it hits the skylight, and the first thing I do once we’re inside is walk over to the center of the structure and stare up at the glass and bundles of shapeless clouds crawling across the sky. Around me, people are strolling along the art-studded walls, staring, whispering, smiling. Even the air in here is different. Light. Unsullied. Magical.

In a way, being in this place reminds me of my first time in Getty and I soak up the novelty of the feeling before it wears off and takes its rightful spot in the part of my mind where all the good memories are stored.

Endless seconds tick by while I gobble up the view stretched out in front of me. Zander’s fingers slip between mine, but he doesn’t say anything until I’ve had my fill.

“Let’s go seeMural.” I tell him, and we wander through the string of exhibits until we get to the section of the museum showcasing Pollock’s work.

“As a teenager,” I whisper, “I was obsessed with Salvador Dali. Something about the bizarreness of the imagery. Looking at his work was like looking at grotesque fairy tale illustrations for adults. And then when I was fifteen, I saw a documentary on TV about Pollock’s method. The drop technique and the action painting. It allowed him to view and work on the piece from all angles. I thought it was brilliant. I was so fascinated, the next day I dragged my dad to the store and made him buy me an oil painting kit and a roll of background paper.”

I stop talking and stare at the canvas in front of me, then tilt up my head and look at Zander. He looks back, his gaze clinging to my face, and I suddenly feel so exposed. My legs weaken and a zing of electricity shoots up my spine and causes a dozen fireworks in my belly and chest.

“Thank you for bringing me here.” My voice is small, my heart hammering away. “It means a lot to me.”

Zander doesn’t respond. He glances at our hands where they connect and tightens his grip as if letting me go is not an option from this point on.

We continue our stroll in silence until I find the courage to talk again without getting all emotional, and the next few hours are probably the best I’ve spent in my entire existence, of all the twenty-nine years of my life.

It’s not just the art and the place.

It’s everything.

It’s the fact that a man who knows next to nothing about me went out of his way to do something so wonderfully drastic to put a smile on my face.

We stay at the museum until closing time. As a matter of fact, the security guard all but kicks us out. Afterward, we walk around Manhattan until our legs refuse to cooperate due to the cold. Once we get back to the hotel, we decide to grab a couple of drinks at the downstairs bar before we go up to our suite.

I ask for a dirty martini and Zander orders a beer. Although something tells me it’s just for looks, because he’s been nursing it for over thirty minutes.

The lights here are stylishly dimmed and the crowd is somewhat different than back in California. Louder. Dressier. Positively tipsy. Couples are lounging in small booths in the darker corners. Almost every other person is sporting either a Yankee’s cap or jacket. It’s so different from the relaxed atmosphere of L.A. that it almost feels like a whole other planet.

“Do you miss it?” I stare at Zander over the rim of my glass. The amber shadows dancing across his cheeks only highlight his weight loss, which I attribute to the car accident. “The band?” The question has been on the tip of my tongue all night, threatening to come out, but I haven’t felt brave enough to ask.

I do now. Thanks to the martinis.

“I miss the feeling.” Zander nods.

We’re at the end of the bar, our stools so close, our knees are touching.

“The camaraderie, I guess. The chemistry,” he goes on, his gaze dropping to the beer bottle and a ghost of a smile flashing across his lips. Then he’s quiet for a long moment. “But there are some things I don’t miss.”

“Like what?”

Zander looks back at me. “Like the dissonance at the end. Right before we decided to quit.”

“I was under the impression it was a mutual decision.”

“It was and it wasn’t.”

“How do you mean?”

He tilts his head to the side slightly, and his hand curls around the bottle. For a few seconds, he just glares at me. “It was around the time Justice met Hazel. He changed. He started to write stuff that didn’t work for our brand, and all of sudden, we wanted to do different things. ‘Amber’ was a huge risk for us.”

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