Page 56 of A Little Moore Action
An image of Chase’s mom pops into my head. She seemed nice enough at brunch, but I didn’t exactly get a hugger vibe from her. I wonder briefly how Chase and Liz came by their ability to express affection so openly.
The young family gets swallowed up by the crowd at the park, and Chase wraps his arms around me. “So, where are we going?”
I settle into his embrace, giving him a side-hug. “My happy place.”
“I have to say,your happy place and my happy place are two completely different places.” Chase looks around, shaking his head.
“Oh yeah?” I head into another room of the Museum of Modern Art. “And what is your happy place, then?”
Chase trails after me. “Inside you.”
An older woman gasps, and Chase cringes, having not seen her standing there. “Sorry about that, ma’am.” He nods in my direction. “She kind of makes me crazy.” The older woman looks unconvinced at his words. Chase winks.
And damn if that wink doesn’t make one of the stuffiest-looking older women I’ve ever seen—wrist bag, pantyhose, and cardigan draped over her shoulders—blush.
“Here now, young lady. You shouldn’t lead such a charming man on.” She tsks at me.
I’m too dumbfounded to do anything other than gape as she walks out of the room, but not before patting Chase on the cheek like a good boy and wishing him luck.
Hands behind his back, Chase strolls farther into the room, whistling.
“What the hell was that?” Seriously. Have I transported back in time? Is feminism still a word? Can women still vote?
“Language, please, Campbell,” he mock scolds me. “You don’t want to be a further bad influence on me, now do you?”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” I huff, marching into the next room.
“Wait. You didn’t even look at these paintings.” Chase follows after me, but I keep walking through two more rooms until I find the one I want.
“Wow.” Chase stands behind me, hands resting on my shoulders. “Your happy place is with a weird dude in a white wig.”
I glare over my shoulder.
He raises his hands. “Hey, no judgment.”
“His name is Andy Warhol.”
Chase cocks an eyebrow. I huff.
“Okay, yes, he was a weird dude in a white wig.”
There’s that annoying but sexy smirk again.
“But he wasalsoone of the most famous pop artists in America.”
“Yeah, the soup can man, right?”
I laugh, unable to hold his opinion against him. Warholisknown as the soup can man. “Yeah, the soup can is a part of it.”
Chase doesn’t say anything else, just walks the perimeter of the room, looking over the art.
I’ve been looking forward to this pop art exhibit since my first flight to New York. Watching Chase, who’s studying the Lichtensteins, Indianas, Harings, and yes, Warhols on display, I’m glad I’d waited to go.
I walk in the opposite direction, needing a smidge of distance now that I’ve taken him to someplace so meaningful to me. We pass each other once before meeting where we started.
Chase takes another glance around, lips pursed. “I’m surprised, but not surprised.”
I laugh, though it sounds unnatural. “Okay,” I draw out, not sure why I feel nervous. “Whatever that means.”
