Page 5 of Love Is an Art
A few feet away, the sculptor waves his hands, explaining his metal sculpture, composed of tubes and car parts, as some critique of capitalism. Three finance guys are clearly not his target audience, although he did try to sell us one work.
“Can you usually guess the murderer when you read it?” she asks.
“No. You’d think I’d have some insight as his son, right?”
“Not necessarily. I mean, he has to deceive his faithful readers.”
“Deceive?”
“Leave them guessing. That’s a better way to phrase it.” Her brow furrows.
“But I do try to figure it out. I’m one of his beta readers, and that’s one thing he always wants to know: Who do I think did it?”
“You must be close if he allows you to beta-read his manuscripts. Did you ever want to be a writer?” She tucks her blonde hair behind her ear.
“Never.”
“That’s very definite.”
“Math and history were my favorite subjects. English, art …” I shake my head. “Torture.”
“I’m surprised you still want to talk to me, then.” She crosses her arms.
“I said the wrong thing, didn’t I?” I ask. My face warms.
She laughs. And I feel a burst of pride that I made her look so delighted. I like her smile. It’s open and playful. And that she’s casually dressed—that messy, painted top and a short miniskirt. Not that I’m checking her out. Or in the market. Even if I did just help her out. And even if there was that flare of attraction.
I’m not in any place to be dating anyone. I have to impress my boss, Charles. My fund was recently sued, and the litigation is taking up all my extra time. I can’t lose focus again by dating and getting my heart stomped on. Especially someone without any references. Not that common friends did me any good when I was dating Paisley. Except that they seemed as shocked by her betrayal as I was.
But I also haven’t felt that electricity with anyone since Paisley.
It’s not like I want to be some monk. Ben is right that I should get back out there.
She shakes her head, still smiling. “Actually, I think you said the right thing. Brownie points for self-deprecating honesty. But I’d recommend against saying that to any other artists you meet.”
“Point taken. I’ll stick to saying I’ve wanted to work for a company ever since I was a kid and used to have to hang out after school with my mom at her office. She’s an accountant. My mom framed a photo of me organizing my desk at home like her office desk.”
“Aww. That’s definitely a better story. I want to see that picture,” she says. “You don’t have a copy on your phone?”
“Definitely not. But I’m sure my mom will be happy to show you.”
She sips her drink, peering at me over the rim, and then tilts her head. “Are we already discussing meeting mothers?”
I laugh. “For a swap of embarrassing childhood photos? I’m in.”
She leans back and narrows her eyes. “It’s the stories that accompany the photos that I’m more worried about.”
I step a bit closer. “Now that’s a tease if I ever heard one. Any you want to share?”
“Not at our first meeting.” She lifts her chin primly.
“We’ll have to schedule a second, then. Can I have your number?”
“Smooth,” she says.
“Too smooth?” Even I think it was too smooth. Or desperate-sounding. I’m rusty.
“Maybe,” she says. “But I’ll give you my number.”
