Page 98 of The Seven Year Slip

“He’s yours,” I corrected.

Her smile faltered a little. “Strauss and Adder won’t be the same without you.”

“It’ll be just as good, and he will shine with you, I just know it.”

She perked at that. “You’re right, and you should say itlouder.”

So I did. I stood and pointed to Drew and shouted, “Attention everyone!”

Drew paled. “No, wait, stop—”

“Please give a round of applause for Drew, the most thoughtful, lovely book editor you’ll ever find!” I shouted, while Drew tried to shush me, and clawed at me to sit down again. The attendant in the room gave me a tired look. “And she just won her dream book at auction!”

There was a round of sparse applause as Drew pulled me back down onto the bench, her face red in a blush. “Shush! Stop it! What’s come over you, do youwantto get kicked out?”

I laughed and promised, “I’m going to celebrate every good thing that comes your way.”

The room attendant, who had begun to walk over to us, decided that we weren’t worth it, turned, and left for her perch by the doorway again.

Drew said, “You’re a menace.”

“You love me.”

“We do,” she agreed, and her eyes flicked down to the package again. “Come find us when you’re done?”

“I promise.”

“Okay, good.” And she left again to go after Fiona.

When she was gone, and the quiet crept into the gallery again, I stared down at the package on the bench beside me. It was small, about the size of a postcard, so I could see how it could’ve easily gotten lost. There were half a dozen different customs stamps on it, detailing its long and harrowing journey. It felt almost impossible that it’d come back to me, but it had.

My fingers slipped under the brown packaging paper, and I finally tore it open. It was a travel guide—to Iceland.Ævintýri Bíðurby Ingólfur Sigurðsson. When I put it into Google, it translated toAdventure Awaits.

And she had tucked a letter into it:

To detail our trip next year! I found it in a darling little used bookstore in Canterbury, England.

Love, AA

My mouth twisted as tears came to my eyes. She had been planning it even though, in the end, she wasn’t quite sure she wanted to go.

I closed the letter and tucked it back into the book for the trip I would never go on, and turned my eyes back up to van Gogh.

I would never know if she meant to leave or not, whether it was accidental or intentional, but I chose to believe that in another universe, we were boarding a plane to Iceland, she in her powder- blue traveling coat, her hair pulled up into a scarf, ready to tear through all the romance novels she’d loaded onto her kindle, and I’d be painting scenes inÆvintýri Bíður.

I liked that story. It was a good one.

But... so was this one. A little sadder, but it was mine, and while Iceland was no longer on the agenda, adventure still awaited, so I opened to the first page, and took out my pencil, and began to sketch the family with the young child across the room. Her parents held her hand as she pulled them from one painting to the next, counting the birds in each of them. If they didn’t have a bird, she’d say, “None!” and move on, so naturally I sketched a flock of pigeons behind her.

I’m sure my friends were all dragging each other through the Met, looking at the suits of armor and the sphinxes and the Rembrandts, while I sat happily and let my heart pour out into the pages.

I didn’t notice the man who sat down beside me until the little girl came up to him and asked, “Doyoulike birds?”

“Most of them,” he replied warmly, “though I’m still unsure about pigeons.”

“I love pigeons!” she gasped, and turned to her parents. “Momma, Daddy, let’s count the pigeons in the pictures next!” Before she dragged them off to the next room, which—I knew from experience—held quite a lot of paintings with birds in them.

The man beside me leaned forward, his hands on his knees, as he looked up at the paintings. He wore a soft lavender button-down,sleeves rolled up to expose the tattoos across his arms, placed like afterthoughts. I glanced over at him—

---