It’s another hour until he knocks on the door.
And I definitely don’t run to the door or stand in front of it for two whole minutes, trying to catch my breath and pretend like I haven’t been waiting for him since he sent that text. Since before that, if I’m totally honest. Since I sent the invitation, pretending I didn’t care if he ignored it.
Since he dived in after me through the water, the first person to meet me where I was instead of where they wanted me to be.
When I open the door, he looks rumpled and travel-worn and so handsome after being on a plane that it’s indecent. “Hey, stranger,” he says softly, his eyes a sleek ocean surface at night. It’s been three years since I’ve seen him, and he looks harder and softer at the same time.
There are lots of ways I can say hello to him that will make me seem mature. Instead I throw my arms around his broad shoulders and press my face into his neck, breathing him in. “It’s the worst thing I’ve ever made, and everyone’s going to look at it, and I want to die.”
He stands stock-still for a moment, as if too surprised to even move. Then his arms wrap around me. He holds me like the whole world could batter us from every side and we would still be safe clinging together like this. He holds me like I’m running out of air and he knows the way to the surface. “It will be okay, Harper. I promise you.”
There are embarrassing tears on my lashes when I pull back. “This would be less humiliating if I were throwing an artistic tantrum and throwing things. Crying is so pedestrian.”
“I’m sure that vase would make a satisfying crash,” he offers gently.
The weird thing is I know he would let me throw it, if that’s what I needed. Or cry on his shoulder if that’s what I need instead. “Come inside,” I say, dragging him by the hand so he has to scramble to grab the handle of his carry-on before the heavy hotel door slams behind him.
I need a minute to compose myself, so I drop his hand and head for the minibar. There are tiny bottles of wine and rum and vodka. “Do you know how to make drinks?” I ask over the clink of little glass containers. “The only things I know how to make have the ingredients in the name, like rum and Coke or a whiskey sour.”
“Sour isn’t an ingredient,” he says, sounding distracted.
“Of course it is,” I say, glancing back at him. And then freezing when I see he’s standing directly in front of Medusa, staring at her like she has the secrets of the universe in her eyes. “Oh.”
“Goddamn, Harper. This is… there aren’t words.”
My throat suddenly feels dry, and I have to force myself to swallow. I feel strangely buoyant as I stand and cross the few yards between us. “Disappointing? You can tell me.”
He looks at me like I’m insane. “This is incredible. There’s so much talent, but it’s the way it makes you feel her rage and her vulnerability that’s incredible. It belongs in the museums next to O’Keeffe and Kahlo, and even then people would stop and stare at this.”
“I didn’t know you knew about art,” I say lamely.
He shrugs, looking embarrassed. “I don’t, but I spent my free credits taking Ancient Greek Symbolism and History of Portraiture and the Female Gaze after you told me about Medusa.”
My mouth must be hanging open in a way that’s decidedly unladylike, but he couldn’t have surprised me more if he said he was going to give away all his worldly possessions and become a monk. “You did?”
“I’m a long way from an expert, but in my amateur and totally biased opinion, this painting is amazing. You have nothing to worry about.”
“Okay.”
Dark eyes narrow. “You aren’t convinced.”
“It’s not a bad painting, I’m not saying that. It’s just not the painting. The one I need to show considering I’m only doing this exhibit because of the one I painted on the gym wall.”
“Is there a photograph we could enlarge?”
I make a face. “No, that’s not the right way. I just need to show them…”
“Spontaneity?”
“Rage.”
That slow smile again, the one I still remember clearly in my mind all these years later. It’s even more poignant now, knowing that he cares about me enough to take those classes. To visit me on my exhibit when he must have a million things more important to do. “Then let’s show them rage. Should we slash everyone’s tires while they’re looking at the exhibit?”
“I like your dedication, but parking in New York City is a logistical nightmare already without adding in guerilla artistry to the mix.”
“Fair,” he says. “So what do you have in mind?”
“I want to paint something new for them. Something… real.”
“Like while they watch? Performance art?”
The idea dawns on me with a lurch and roll, the way the yacht moved beneath me. And then I’m falling with nothing to catch me. Only someone’s here to follow me down. “What if we went to the studio right now?”
He looks exactly the right amount of scandalized. And being the pragmatist, he glances at his watch. “It’s midnight. How long do we have before they open?”
“Long enough.”
For a moment he studies me, and I think he’s wondering whether he’s going to go along with this crazy plan. Wondering more than me, anyway. If there’s one thing this man understands, it’s raw determination. He’ll be in it with me.
A brief nod. “Breaking and entering it is.”
That’s how we end up spending all night in a fancy SoHo art studio, its walls bare and white and waiting for the paintings that are stacked in my penthouse suite. That’s how I end up painting a Medusa in swirls of purple and teal and pink using a wooden folding chair as my step stool.
I don’t know where they planned to put the centerpiece of the show. Probably somewhere front and center, where everyone would see it first. This one’s in the back of the studio. You have to look at every other painting first and turn the corner. And then she blazes at you in all her snake-fueled glory. She turns the viewer to stone, if Christopher’s look of awe is any indication.
He turns to me, and I’m in awe of this, of him, of his bleary eyes and the smudges of paint from helping me. Of the expression of pride on his handsome face. How did we get here?
“I don’t want to go,” I tell him.
“We’ll be back in a few hours. But I’m pretty sure I should shower before then.” He touches his thumb to my cheek, and it comes away teal. “Probably you too.”
“Should we leave them a note or something?”
He hands me one of the paintbrushes, this one tinged with dark purple at the tip. “Sign it. That’s enough of a note.”
I didn’t sign the one I painted in the gym, but I take the paintbrush and swirl my name into the bottom right of the painting, where one of the fierce snakes writhes. “How’s that?”
“Perfect,” he says, his gaze locked on mine.
My breath catches. “Thank you for helping me.”
“No, thank you for letting me be part of this. I went to college with legends in the business world, and I’ve still never seen anything close to this.”