Page 2 of The Art of Exiley

I look up atDavidagain; his intense gaze now seems to be one of accusation.

It’s a familiar feeling. Growing up as the least talented member in a family of artists and scholars, I’m accustomed to being judged. I know I have talents, but they often feel more like expectations.

And I always fall short.

I sniff and glance around to see if I can get away with wiping my nose on my sleeve, but somebody’s watching me. A very handsome somebody. And this handsome body has an actual heartbeat, and, though quite tall, is still within the realm of human size, unlike my new boyfriend towering above us. Now I’m even more self-conscious of my tears.

I look back at the boy—the living, breathing one, that is—and he’s still watching me. When our eyes meet, he smiles, and he has dimples that are so charming that I decide to break up withDavidon the spot.

Sorry, my love. I’ll still buy a postcard with your face on it.

Mr. Dimples is moving toward me now, or maybe he’s just trying to see the sculpture from another angle. He’s even cuter up close, all long limbs and floppy brown hair. A blue gemstone hoop hugs his right earlobe. I’ve been on the hunt for someone wearing a sapphire earring but… no. He’s nothing like the recruiter I’ve been told to look for: a Black man in his fifties with an eye patch or sunglasses and three piercings in one ear of sapphire, emerald, and pearl. This guy might have a blue earring, but he’s white, looks like he’s in college, and has nothing obscuring his twinkling brown eyes and too-long lashes.

The T-shirt he’s wearing has a picture of da Vinci’sVitruvian Manplaying an electric guitar.

Be still my beating heart.

I pretend to scratch my nose so I can deal with the snot situation as inconspicuously as possible. Then I too decide to seeDavidfrom another angle, wandering close enough to give Mr. Dimples an opening to flirt with me. Though the fact that he just watched me cry over a statue might reduce my chances.

He smiles in a way that shows he sees right through my ploy, and now he’s close enough for me to see that the dimple on his left cheek is deeper than the one on the right.

“Nice shirt,” I say.

“It’s refreshing,” he responds, “to watch someone truly appreciate a masterpiece.”

Heat rises in my cheeks. “Isn’t it rude to come in here flaunting a rival’s work?” I ask, eyeing his T-shirt meaningfully.

“Da Vinci and Michelangelo weren’t rivals,” he says with complete assurance.

Considering that I don’t know nearly as much about the Renaissance masters as I wish I did, I’ll take his word for it.

He extends his hand to me. “I’m Michael.”

I awkwardly shake his hand. It’s warm and calloused, but his nails have been chewed to the quick.

“I’m Ada,” I reply as I pull my hand from his, though I can’t say I want to.

One of his dark brows arches. “Like Ada Lovelace,” he says.

This takes me by surprise. Only a certain kind of person immediately associates my name with Ada, Countess of Lovelace, the first computer programmer.

“The inventor of poetical science,” he continues, amused. “My very favorite kind of science.”

“Theoretical physics is my favorite kind of science,” I respond. “Too bad I suck at math.”

“Theoretical physics is definitely in my top three,” he says.

“For the time travel, right?” I ask.

“How did you know?”

I should stop grinning so hard; I don’t want to appear too eager. But he’s grinning too.

“So, you’re a fan of sculpture?” he asks.

“I didn’t know I was until today.” No other sculpture has ever hit like this one.

“Ah, yes, theDavidcan have that effect on people.”

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