MICHAEL HAD TOLD DARBY THAT he would meet her outside the hospital to pick her up. What he hadn’t said was that he’d be leaning against his Maserati, which he’d parked illegally right in front of the exit for everyone to see. Darby’s first reaction was to laugh, then to hide her face in her hands as she walked through the sliding automatic doors. Until then, she’d only seen the Maserati parked on her own quiet street, or coming out of valet parking. She supposed, with a car like that, he was used to parking anywhere he wanted. Besides, any ticket he couldn’t charm his way out of, he could afford to pay. The car drew a lot of attention in this setting.
So did Michael. On any given day, he could have stood alone, hiding behind a tree wearing a burlap sack and he still would have caught the attention of everyone who passed. But in a fur trim shearling parka, sporting $1,200 sunglasses, leaning against a $160,000 car, he looked like a million bucks. Since everyone was looking with interest at him, and he was looking with interest at her, Darby knew she’d have a lot of explaining to do the next day.
“Really?” She failed at sounding more stern than amused as she asked the question, her hands in the pocket of her own fur trim parka as she approached. “I thought we were going to dinner in the loop—that’s, like, a six dollar Uber drive away.”
He pulled what looked like a blow pop out of his mouth.
Holy hell.
“I missed her,” he shrugged unapologetically, the smile that had come to his lips when he’d caught sight of Darby widening a bit. “Ten days away from Starla is ten days too long.”
She chuckled, happy to see him, because ten days had felt long to her, too.
“Starla is the name of a diner waitress.
“Starla has a 4.7 liter v8 and 460 horsepower.”
“Starla gets twelve miles to the gallon.”
“Thirteen. Don’t be rude.”
“You gonna let me in, or what?”
“It depends. You gonna stop talking smack?”
She raised two fingers to her mouth in a pincer grip and drew them from one corner to the other, in the universal sign for zipping her lips shut.
“Alright, then,” he said smugly. Taking her bag from her shoulder, he opened the passenger door and held her hand as she stepped in.
For all the marathon kissing sessions they had in private, they had still never kissed in public. Darby noticed that in moments that might have merited a kiss, he touched her neck and looked in her eyes instead. They had their own private language now, which she supposed was bound to happen between two people who had cultivated such an intense connection with one another’s bodies. The more important things they said to one another were rarely spoken out loud.
“You look fresh for someone who just got off a plane,” she observed during their short drive.
“That’s because I didn’t just get off of the plane. I landed this morning and slept all day,” he admitted. “I needed it. I wanted to preserve my energy for tonight.”
His comment caused her mind to wander to all she’d been missing while he was gone. She would’ve preferred to take him home then, to lose herself in that kiss she’d been craving, to beg him to fuck her all night, but he’d been adamant about having an early dinner out. After crossing the river, he took them north on Michigan, but instead of turning in toward the loop, he stayed on Millennium Park. When they passed by the front of the Art Institute before turning off onto a side street and into what appeared to be a private underground garage, realization dawned.
“Is there an event here tonight?” she asked, her mouth suddenly dry. She remembered telling Michael that she hadn’t been there since her mother’s death. She knew he hadn’t forgotten. He was like an elephant.
“No,” Michael said. “The museum’s closed.”
He pressed the button on the intercom and before he had a chance to speak, the chain-link gate lifted to let the car in. She didn’t say anything more—not as they parked, not when Michael ushered her out of the car and slid her coat off of her shoulders, and not as they took the elevator to the main floor. The dimly lit interior and the sole security guard who greeted them inside confirmed what she had begun to suspect.
“It’s all yours, Mr. Blaine…Ms. Christensen.” Butterflies stormed Darby’s stomach as Michael thanked the guard. A moment too late, she realized how rude it had been of her not to do the same. But she had felt paralyzed.
“Where to first?” Michael asked casually, her hand still in his. His gaze was soft and knowing.
She swallowed to find her voice. “The Impressionists?”
“I thought you might say that.” He smiled.
It was overwhelming—the feeling of being back in this place, and even more overwhelming to have been brought there by Michael. She felt almost out of her body as he ushered her up the elaborate four-way staircase, turning them left, and then right, until they met the grand glass doors of the Pritzker Galleries. Although she had navigated to this section at least one hundred times, at that moment, Michael’s solid hand at her back felt essential.
The closer they got to the exhibit, any thoughts of Michael fell away as Darby was consumed by nostalgia. As a child, she had never been taken to children’s museums, but she knew every nook and cranny of this place. She knew how to navigate the labyrinthine exhibits without getting lost, knew every shortcut that would take her swiftly from one wing of the museum to the next. Every staff member and security guard had once known her too. It had been a playground of sorts—when not directly at her mother’s side, she had explored on her own. They had stopped going so frequently when she was shipped off to boarding school at age twelve, but during most of her school breaks, she and her mother had gone there together.
As they reached the beginning of the exhibit, tears sprang to her eyes. Darby had her own favorites, but her mother had truly loved this impressive collection—the Van Goghs and Cezannes and Gauguins and Seurats. Letting Michael’s hand go, she strode forward, outpacing him, as she stepped into her forgotten world. She drank in painting after familiar painting—the Renoir of the little red-haired boy sewing and the many renditions of water lilies in the Monet room. Time played tricks on her. It wasn’t just the familiarity of the paintings themselves that got to her—it was the smell of this place. It felt like a part of her.
How have I stayed away from here for so long?
She didn’t know how long it took for her to remember Michael’s presence. It must have been a while, because she found herself near the end of the exhibit before she thought to turn to him. He appeared slightly blurry to her through the tears that brimmed in her eyes, but she could see his apprehension.
“If it’s too much—”
“It’s perfect,” she interrupted.
For a long moment, his eyes didn’t leave hers.
“I thought it might be easier if you had it all to yourself.”
The next blink of her eyes caused the brimming tears to fall.
“Thank you,” she choked.
She held out her hand, still feeling overwhelmed but needing to bridge the space between them. She watched him extend his own, watched his eyes lower and take in the sight of their hands held together—not palm to palm, but fingers intertwined, thumbs wrapped around one another. Stepping closer to her, he used the thumb of his free hand to wipe away her tears.
From there, he took her lead once more, this time walking by her side. She turned to go back through the exhibit. The minutes felt infinite as she flowed in and out of memories, remaining silent about some but speaking others aloud.
“These were what made me want to visit Paris,” she murmured as they looked at a Pissarro together. “And these too,” she said, turning toward the middle of the room to look between two Rodins.
“This one always scared the hell out of me,” she remarked as they walked by a Lautrec called Moulin Rouge. She and Michael shared a smile.
When they arrived once again at Seurat’s iconic Sunday on La Grande Jatte she stopped.
“I always imagined that was us in this painting—me and my mom.”
Darby stared at the little girl in the white dress and hat and the mother dressed in soft reds who stood next to her with a matching parasol. The people in the painting were faceless, making their body posture important to interpreting mood. The mother and daughter, who stood at the very center of the painting stood somberly, staring forward, amid an otherwise light hearted scene.
“It was like staring into a mirror,” she continued thoughtfully. “It wasn’t like I was an unhappy kid…but I wasn’t like that other girl either,” she said, referring to the other young girl in the painting. “I wasn’t like the one who’s running around.”
“I’ve never thought the girl in white looked unhappy,” Michael said gently. “She’s the most important person in the painting. She’d looking straight at us, the viewers. Everyone else is distracted, or self-absorbed, but she’s the only one who’s paying attention. She’s the only one who knows something.”
She turned to him then, wondering for the very first time where he fit into all of this. She already thought the world of Michael, but this moment—right now—made her want to know him better. It made her feel that she had underestimated him.
After they had gone all around and back through the exhibit a third time, the breath she took as they reached the passageway to the modern wing cleansed something inside her. She turned back to Michael, moving close enough to clutch the lapels on his jacket. Her eyes bore into his a moment before she kissed him.
Their kiss held every emotion—gratitude, awe, and longing. It was not the kiss she had envisioned all week, not the one she had thought would happen in the privacy of one of their houses, not the gateway kiss to their soul-deep sex. His hands floated upward to cup her face and she could tell something had awakened inside him. His kiss held that unfathomable intensity she had once felt before but didn’t yet understand. He was barely pressed against her—it was only his thumbs gently stroking her cheeks as his lips gently devoured hers. Yet she felt thoroughly enveloped in his warmth, every bit as much as she would if she were tightly ensconced in his arms.
“What next?” he asked softly, his thumbs still on her cheeks a long minute after they had pulled apart.
“What do you want to see?”
He shook his head. “I come here all the time. Tonight is for you, cupcake.”
So they continued, with her leading him with perfect memory around the museum, to the medieval coats of armor, and American folk art, and the contemporary wing. She stopped to admire the sole Liechtenstein.
“I’ve always wanted one of his,” she murmured.
“Have you ever studied his work?”
“Not formally,” she admitted.
“There have been some fairly detailed psychological assessments of his work. In real life, his relationships with women were very dark.”
Just when she’d thought there could be no more surprises, they entered the Warhol room. In place of the large bench that normally sat in the middle was a dinner table set for two.
“Michael, this is—”
The most thoughtful, romantic, gesture that anybody has ever made for me.
“Something I thought you might like, so I arranged it.”
She spun around slowly, taking in all of the paintings—the self-portrait of the artist himself, the bright-colored Elizabeth Taylor, the repeating black and white of Jackie Onassis. That one had always struck a chord in her—the politician’s perfect wife.
He pulled out her chair and let her sit, pushing her back in and unfolding her napkin to place it on her lap. She was still having trouble comprehending that he’d done all this for her, but she knew he’d brush off any further gratitude. So she asked something that had been rolling around in her mind since the second he’d said it.
“You come here all the time?”
A waiter appeared at their table, seemingly out of nowhere, and set two plates in front of them before pouring from the champagne bottle that had been chilling on ice. The plates boasted an assortment of well-crafted canapés. Michael had really outdone himself this time. When they were alone again, he spoke.
“I kind of grew up here, too. When I was younger, art was the only thing I cared about. As soon as I was old enough to take the train by myself, I would ride all over the city, finding people and cityscapes, and objects that looked interesting to me. I spent hours and hours just drawing. I’d lose track of time, come home late for dinner—it worried my mother sick.”
He smiled at the memory.
“I also hit the museums, wanting to study all the greats. But also to find my own style, figure out who I was as an artist. I spent hours here, seeing whether I could imitate certain artistic styles and sketching other things I saw—mostly people.”
As she followed his story, she tried to imagine a teenage version of him sitting on these benches and wandering these halls. She couldn’t help but wonder whether teenage Michael and teenage Darby had ever locked eyes.
“Do you still come here to sketch?”
He shook his head, his long fingers playing with the base of the champagne flute.
“I like to come when it’s quiet and look at the art.”
She looked around.
“This is pretty quiet.”
One corner of his mouth crooked upward.
“I didn’t mean I come after hours. I usually come about an hour before closing. This, right now, is just for you.”
A lump formed in her throat as she swallowed back every word their agreement would forbid her to say. They spent the rest of their evening discussing their favorite art.