Page 78 of Guy's Girl
“What do you mean?”
“I do care about you. As does Clay. And Tristan, and even Finch, in his own fucked-up way. Not that we’re talking about him.” Adrian raises one of his hands and tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. She inhales in surprise. “We’re talking about you, and the fact that—that—”
“That what, Adrian?” It’s barely a whisper.
His eyes search hers. After a pause, he says, “That I care about you. That I care about you getting healthy. I care about you living,for fuck’s sake.” He looks away, over at the marzipan sweets glistening in the window. “I know what the endgame is when it comes to eating disorders. I know where they lead. And I won’t—” His voice cracks. “I refuse to let that happen to you.” He looks back down at her. “Okay?”
Her voice is barely audible. “Okay.”
“Good.” He releases his hold on her arms, puts one arm over her shoulders, and tucks her into his side. Then, together, they start back down Bogdányi.
“Adrian?” She squeezes his side. “I’m sorry.”
“What did I just—”
“No.” She shakes her head. “Not about that. I’m sorry that you’re going to have to give me that tour all over again because I really want to learn about your hometown, but I wasn’t listening to literally anything you said.”
Adrian laughs, a sound so warm and genuine it gives her a brief rush of elation. As they continue down Bogdányi, she wishes she could bottle that sound up, slip it into her back pocket, and keep it forever.
***
Walks become their daily ritual. One in the morning, one in the afternoon.
On their first afternoon walk, Ginny makes Adrian reeducate her on all the history she missed that morning. When he points to a building and says there is an art exhibit beneath it, she tells him she wants to go inside.
“This building is called the Lajos Vajda Studio,” Adrian says as they descend the staircase. “Named after Lajos Vajda, a famous Hungarian artist who lived during the early twentieth century. He was a weird dude. Did a lot of abstract paintings and charcoals and collages.”
They reach the bottom of the staircase, which opens up into what she can only describe as a brightly lit dungeon. The walls and floor are all made of dusty, deteriorating brick. High archways line the space. The whole thing reminds her of the crypt inGame of Thrones.
Except for the art.
The art is everywhere: affixed to the walls, wrapped around the arches, standing upright at the center of the room. Paintings, pastels, collages, photographs, sculptures, installations. Each one stranger than the last.
“This studio opened in the seventies.” Adrian leads her over to the closest painting. It’s an abstract piece painted in bright primary colors that reminds her of the houses that line the street in Szentendre. She can make out no distinct shape but a small eye down in the left corner. “It’s a cult collective dedicated to supporting the underground art scene in Hungary. You get some weird stuff down here.”
“No kidding,” she says, eyeing a sculpture that appears to be coated in a thin layer of human hair.
They continue their loop of the room. “Do you like art, then?” Adrian asks.
“I don’t know,” she says honestly. “I’ve never studied it in any depth.”
“Well, you don’t need to study art to appreciate it.”
“Don’t you, though? Unless it comes naturally to you, like some kind of gift? I look at stuff like this and I think—I have no idea what the artist is trying to say. I get a general feeling from the work, but I don’t know how to analyze it, to make any meaning out of it. Not the way I do with a written text. I look at paintings and feel kind of stupid, to be honest.”
Adrian shakes his head. “You’re not stupid. Art analysis is a muscle, just like literary analysis. Were you able to identify metaphorsand alliteration and mood and tone before you started studying them in earnest?”
She thinks about it for a moment. “Actually, on some level, I think the answer to that question is yes. Writing has always come naturally to me. It’s one of the only things that does. Everything else—math, science, sports, music, whatever—I had to work hard to achieve even a modicum of success.” She stops before a charcoal portrait. The woman holds a hand to either side of her face, barely touching her cheeks. Her chin is tilted back, mouth slightly ajar. It is a posture of surprise, though her eyes look utterly in control. “I’m not saying I came out of the womb knowing what a metaphor was. Obviously I didn’t. But I’ve always... I don’t know. I’ve always known how to make a piece of writing dark, or light, or gruesome, or funny. I’ve always known that characters need backstories and motivations. I didn’t think of things in those terms, of course. I just thought... I was just writing about people. I was just writing a story.”
Adrian is quiet, then, watching her.
She thinks back over her words. “That sounded really arrogant, didn’t it?”
“No.” He shakes his head. “It didn’t.”
“Oh.” She looks down at the dusty stone floor. “Well, enough about me. This whole damn week has been about me. I’m sure you’re sick of it. Tell me about Disney. I haven’t even asked you about it once.”
When she looks back up at Adrian, he opens his mouth as if to say one thing, then shuts it again. He nods, then, and says, “It’s good.” He smiles. “It’s great, actually. I just finished my first big project.”
