Page 90 of Is This for Real?
Andnowit’sbackto life in New York. I’m busy making the miniature art studio. Today I painted my 1/12th-scale art gallery box white and the “tin ceiling” copper. I’ve made the roof slant the final four inches with glass
windows—like Rory’s favorite Met gallery—and then the front wall has the typical big windows of Tribeca galleries. I create miniature gothic columns using a 3-D printing program. While the paint is drying, I make miniature roses.
The doorbell rings. It’s the postman with a package. I run downstairs and come back up. It’s little paintings from Rafael for the miniature art studio, which is the piece I’m donating for the charity auction. The five pieces of art are stunning. My art gallery will be just the setting for them. I carefully pack away the art pieces, putting them in a safe place in my drawer.
I haven’t looked atFake Dating Follyagain. I know I should, but I just can’t face it yet. I’m still finishing up my class with Trilby. I submit the first five pages ofMidnight Masqueradefor Trilby’s final homework exercise.
Trilby writes back: “How does she feel when she’s grabbing the painting? I need to feel her nerves clenching, the drip of sweat. Bring me into her emotions.” I stare at the page. Should I go to a store and contemplate stealing something to get the feeling—not that I would ever really steal anything. That makes me feel queasy. I lean into that emotion, putting it on the page. I should practice it. But the apartment I describe inMidnight Masqueradeis Rory’s apartment. I should practice stealing a painting from his bedroom to see how that feels. He gave me a spare set of keys for emergencies. And then I’ll surprise him when he comes home tonight.
I pack my laptop and cleaning gloves in my backpack, grab my helmet, leave a note for Zelda, and go out into the night. As I bicycle down the bike path to Rory’s apartment, a slight breeze brushes against my face. My bicycle light illuminates the path ahead under pockets of luminescence from the streetlamps.
I run a few red lights just to see if that produces any anxiety, but I only run them when it’s completely safe, so it doesn’t produce any fear.
I click the bike back into the Citi Bike lock. A man is walking a dog at one end of the block. Rory’s apartment is dark from the street, so he doesn’t appear to be home. Okay, I need to start pretending now. Slipping on the cleaning gloves (no fingerprints), I let myself in the front door, listening to see if any neighbors are coming down the stairs. No. I tiptoe up the stairs.
I unlock his door with my key and slip inside his shadowed apartment. I leave the lights off and tiptoe toward the back, through the hallway kitchen into the back bedroom where the picture hangs. I know Rory’s apartment like my own. I take off my backpack and gently put it under his desk. The painting is above the bed. My feet bounce on the bed. Feeling along the wall, I gently unhook the painting. I lay the painting on the bed and clamber off. Already, more physical details are coming into play. I gingerly carry the painting across the room into the kitchen. The painting is heavier than I expected. I tighten my grip. I don’t want to break the frame and then have to explain to Rory how I damaged one of his favorites. I should’ve picked a different one.
Creak.That’s not from me. I stop short in the kitchen. My pulse races. That sound came from the living room. My breathing sounds really loud. I try to hold my breath so I can hear other noises. Another creak. It’s coming from the living room, near the entrance. My heart is hammering. My hands are sweating. I peer around the kitchen wall. I can see the shape of a man. Rory.
“It’s me,” I say quickly.
He hits the light, and I blink my eyes to adjust.
“What the . . . ? I thought I was being robbed.” He looks at the painting. “Are you robbing me?”
“Yes. I was practicing stealing your painting for my book.”
“Man, I had no idea writing involved so much play-acting.”
“I don’t know if it’s supposed to. It’s just that Trilby said she wanted to feel the fear when she’s stealing the painting. I always have such a hard time writing that, so I thought I should practice it. But it was perfect. I was terrified when I heard the floor creak by the door. I felt the clammy hands, all of it.”
“Don’t forget the ice chill down your back.” He takes the painting from my hands and puts it gently on the floor. “Maybe next time you should warn me.”
I hug him. “Yes, I should have warned you, but I didn’t expect you home so early.”
“It’s not that early. It’s 8 p.m.,” he says. “Bernie and Myrtle invited us to a house party this weekend at their place in the Catskills. Are you free?”
“Yes, if I can bring some mini flower kits with me. Are you going to have to work?”
“Probably some, as we brainstorm our next campaign.” He kisses me gently. “I missed you.”
“I missed you, too.” We move to the couch, and I sit on his lap. “And I’m desperate for a break. I’ve been bent over my desk all day, crafting. And I need some exercise.”
“Do you? Any logistics you need to work out?”
I unbutton his shirt. “Just some pent-up desire.”
“Anything for your art.”
Chapter thirty-four
Theweatherissunnyand crisp, a perfect fall weekend. Or it would be—if we weren’t spending it with Bernie and Myrtle. Myrtle is indeed leading a couples yoga session on Sunday morning. And apparently Rory’s boss’s wife is excited to do it as well, so his boss had decreed that Rory must be there.
We get out of the car, our boots crunching on the gravel and the leaves. The red, orange, yellow, and green foliage is striking, as if the trees are saying “look at me,” like male birds mating. As Rory grabs our bags from the trunk, Myrtle emerges from the house.
“You’re just in time,” Myrtle says. “We’re organizing a quick lunch and then a hike for the afternoon around two.”
We air-kiss cheeks.
