Page 77 of Yes No Maybe

SaraandIstandoutside the front entrance of the Cameron Art Museum five minutes early, waiting for the doors to unlock. She hugs her sketchbook tightly and bounces back and forth on her Doc Martens.

“Did we get the time right?” Her phone says 12:01.

“Yes. They’ll open any second now.”

Movement inside quickens Sara’s excited dance. The door opens, and the security guard greets us with a bearded smile. “Good morning, ladies.”

About to enter, Sara turns toward a loud rumble and squeal in the parking lot. “Oh, good. They’re here.”

The old white van taking the space next to my VW makes my heart rate spike. “What’re they doing here?”

“I invited them. Art then Airlie Gardens.” Sara looks devious. “You can’t ignore him forever.”

“It’s only been a few days. I wish you’d asked me first.”

“Consider this a chance to rebuild some trust. Don’t worry—I texted him to be cool.”

I square my shoulders and take a deep breath as the neighborhood posse lumbers across the parking lot.

Rose’s floral dress waves as she walks. “You lasses look sun-kissed and lovely!”

We smile, looking at each other’s outfits. Independently, we opted for sundresses. Sara’s American Eagle white linen babydoll dress brushes her knees and somehow works with her black boots. My blue boho dress with a low back and spaghetti straps is more comfortable than fashionable. Still, it’s artsy, especially with my watercolor silk scarf loosely covering what my shoulder-length hair doesn’t.

“Pretty as a picture,” Vernon confirms, snapping one with his Nikon.

Rose starts a train of cheek kisses, as if everyone naturally follows her British customs.

Jack doesn’t, though. Aside from a short wave to Sara, he stays focused on me, his brown eyes filled with unusual trepidation. His affection rushes back over me like a warm wave, his hands on my face, and the way he studied me between kisses. I feel a bit breathless.

And guilty. I shouldn’t feel like this. His kiss shouldn’t shuffle through my head like a ghost, haunting me, or like a song I can’t forget, warming me whenever it plays. His kiss has turned cruel—like test-driving a car I could never afford or trying on a designer dress I’d never have an occasion to wear. That damn kiss transformed me into a fake Cinderella, but now the party’s over, the spell is broken, and based on the uneasy way he stares at me, I imagine he’s as regretful as I am.

Sara orders the group inside, but it’s with such excitement that no one seems to mind. They form an awkward line, streaming in mid-conversation.

Jack and I don’t move from the sidewalk. The door clanks shut behind them, leaving us alone.

I say exactly what I’m thinking. “Let’s just forget it happened. Please.”

His eyes narrow, taking in my words and desperate tone. “That’s what you want?”

I nod before he finishes his question. “Of course, that’s what I want.” I choke out an awkward laugh, trying to sound dismissive. “Wild kisses under the boardwalk… bet that happens to you all the time. But it’s a first for me. It must’ve been storm madness or your beautiful book or, I don’t know, you being you. It doesn’t matter—it was a mistake.”

“No, it wasn’t. How can you say that?” He takes a short step forward, closing in on me as other patrons circle us to go inside. “This shit doesn’t happen to me all the time, damn it. Wanting something real with a woman I truly care about is a first for me, too.”

I nearly laugh. “I’m not a damn toy for your amusement. I’m offering you an out. Take it. I want to let it go and focus on having a nice time with Sara.”

I twist toward the museum door. His hand gets there first, opening it for me.

Contemporary artists Jan-Ru Wan and Willie Cole feature in the long first room. Prints of ironing boards and antique irons make for a gorgeous, if not unusual, display. A drape of white collared shirts fills the middle, and I’m instantly drawn in by the textures and feelings these pieces create—everyday objects turned into powerful art. I long to catch up with Sara, but our party is nowhere in sight.

We stand in front of the intricate tapestry of colors in Jan-Ru Wan’sLonging—made from her father’s dress shirts. We’re silent for a long minute before he says, “Beautiful and sad. It makes me think of funerals, of life and death. Mom made a quilt out of Devin’s old t-shirts. She keeps it on her bed. I weave him into my stories. In small ways. No one catches it.”

“The boy down the hall from Jasmine inThe Other Us… and the over-friendly guy running the concessions inCape Moon?”

Jack faces me abruptly. “How’d you know that?”

I edge around him and into another exhibit. “You give your Devin characters baseball imagery. The boy wears a baseball cap. The guy has a baseball team’s sticker on his phone. Plus, he’s always joking around. Sounds like Devin.”

He follows me to a different room. The dim lights highlight a ceiling installation—blue, white, and gold colors on what looks like plastic sheeting form waves around us, like an artsy fun house—or another galaxy, I think, landing on his eyes again.

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