By the time I get home from work the next day it's 7:30 and I'm running late for Lindsay's show. I flip through my dresses until I land on my favourite, a sleeveless raw silk sheath that cinches at the waist. It swings lightly and the blue-grey fabric shimmers, reminding me of the neon lights from last night, that shone murkily through thick slabs of ice. Snatching up some sparkly earrings, I look in the mirror; my eyes look tired, my skin still too pale. I do my best, smoothing another layer of concealer on, and root around for my blush.
Normally I would walk, but tonight I flag a cab. Watching the sheer stone façades of SoHo melt into the warmer brick of the Meatpacking District, I try to relax, except I'm a bundle of nerves. Jacob lives in one of these brick flats, but I've never been to his apartment, I don't even know which building it is. Whenever I'm in the area I find myself scanning the street for a glimpse of him, half-hoping I won't have to go through the churn of emotions he always brings on, my heart stopping with disappointment every time I see a shaggy blond head and it isn't him.
It's worse in the days after I see him, when the desire to be near him is more intense. Maybe it would be easier to cut him out of my life completely, except the same history that makes it hard to be with him also makes him as close as anyone can be, and impossible for me to let go. The idea of never seeing him again makes me unbearably lonely. It's not only my feelings for him. He's the closest tie I have to Derrick's memory, and no matter how difficult it is to be confronted in such a tactile way with his absence, I can't stand the thought of walking the trail of memories by myself.
I look up at the shuttered windows of a flat, the warm glow of lights seeping through, and wonder whether he's going to show up tonight. I tried texting him an hour ago and haven't gotten a response yet. Butterflies have invaded my stomach, and I keep having to stop myself from picking at a chip in my nailpolish. The uncertainty of not knowing whether I'll be seeing him has me on edge.
There are a few people at the entrance when I arrive, crowded around the display in front of the gallery. The brick wall that spans the front of the building is protected by a sheet of glass, and there's a piece from the new exhibition behind the panes. I get out of the cab and walk up behind them, I have to stand on tiptoes to see over the shoulder of the man in front of me. As soon as I get a glimpse I wish I hadn't: a grotesque warped image, hot and cold colours clashing into each other, with a larger-than-life human form, hanging contorted in the centre. Concerned about what the rest of the show will be like, I hurry inside, wanting to get it over with. The narrow entry hallway has scuffed, puce green walls with no decorations, and if I hadn't been here countless times before, I might have thought I had taken a wrong turn. Ahead of me, lights are flickering weirdly through the open doorway.
The walls are covered with more paintings like the one at the entrance, people in strange contorted positions. The strobing lights are roving the room like searchlights, it only makes it harder to spot Lindsay and the whole thing has a headache forming at my temples. I'm just about to text her when I spot her across the room. A beam crosses Lindsay and I realize that it's a projection of the paintings, the contortions leaping from person to person. Her normally pretty features are distorted by the shadow of some hideous figure.
"Hi! Thanks for coming," Lindsay says, hugging me.
"Of course." I give her a kiss on the cheek. "Kind of a dark show you have happening."
"I know, it's weird and depressing," she says, though with a certain enjoyment, giving a cursory look around the room. "Some friend of the owner. This isn't her style, I think she's doing him a favour."
"How long is it on for?" Lindsay's work environment is great, she's usually surrounded by beautiful and interesting art, but this would disturb me.
"We're only running it a couple of nights, and then I'll put something else up." A woman taps on Lindsay's shoulder to get her attention, so I make my way toward the next exhibit by myself. There's another short hallway leading to the largest space, and Lindsay has hung a few new paintings here, the vivid colours contrasting against the rough, exposed brick walls. One of them catches my eye and I walk closer, caught up in bold lines organically unfurling in a sensual mix of hot reds, oranges and golds.
"Interesting, isn't it," says a voice beside me. I glance over and my skin tingles in anticipation. He isn't touching me but I can sense his body, just a few inches away.
"Hi," I say, excitement thudding unbidden in my chest. I was completely tipsy the first time I saw him, and I had assumed his hotness was exaggerated by my state of mind that night. One glance tells me that I wasn't embellishing anything. He is exactly as gorgeous as I remembered, only now that he's in front of me, he's impossibly magnetic. It's more than the change of clothes; he's not just a good-looking guy at a bar anymore, he seems aloof, unapproachable.
He ignores my greeting and steps past me. He's not so casual today, dressed in slim charcoal pants and a button-down shirt. "What do you think?" he asks, turning back to face me. I'm caught in his gaze, the spotlight over the painting catching and illuminating the golden flecks in his cool green eyes. His focus on me is so all-encompassing that every question and response, no matter how trivial, seems significant.
I'm completely blanking on what he asked, something about the painting. I glance at it again, trying to think of something to say. "It's raw and sensual, she reminds me of a more abstracted Georgia O'Keefe." My blush deepens, knowing I'm failing miserably at sounding like I'm unaffected by being near him.
"You enjoy art," he says. I touch my throat in an unconscious effort to get the words out, while I'm under his intense scrutiny.
"Yes, I love beautiful things."
"So do I." His voice is intimate, it feels like we're the only two people here, even though the hallway is cramped and people are squeezing past us. I can't remember why I was embarrassed a moment ago. "It was nice to see you again," he says, stepping back and abruptly ending our short conversation. The dismissal is like a shock of ice water and it sends my pulse skidding. I'm left standing by myself in front of the voluptuous painting, unsurprised that I lost his attention but still, wondering what I did wrong.
The next door leads to the black and white installation. The unexpected darkness is blinding. I'm surrounded by the subdued rustling of clothes, nobody is talking but they make noise anyway, there's breathing around me and someone nearby lets out a stifled cough. A low drone has been building in volume, I can feel my nerves tightening into anxiety with the grating sound, and I look around with eyes wide open, straining to see something through the darkness. A flash of movement deeper in the room catches my attention. I take a step forward and trip over something, reaching out instinctually to keep from falling. I find myself with a handful of something soft yet bristly, almost like hair.
"I'm sorry," I say automatically. My voice sounds loud in the near-silence and then a bright light powers on, glaring right into my eyes. There's a bird lying on a pedestal in front of me. Horrified, I release the handful of feathers without thinking, and they scatter on the floor. The relentless drone is overwhelmed by the deafening cackle of crows, and then the light starts to flicker as more birds flap overhead, circling and diving, their shadows breaking over the crowd then reforming against the wall. It's another projection, film footage playing off an old reel.
I gasp as someone wraps their arms around me from behind. Whirling around, I laugh in relief when I come face to face with Lindsay.
"Scared?" she teases me.
"The mood has definitely been set. I probably damaged the installation." I worriedly point to the scattering of black feathers on the ground.
"How did you manage to grab that in a dark room?" Lindsay asks, and I'm relieved by the laughter in her voice. "You are the queen of klutzes."
"I'm sorry," I say, feeling terrible, but Lindsay brushes away my apology.
As we emerge back into the lighted hallway, she says, "I came to find you earlier but you were talking to Edward. It looked like an intense conversation."
Intense for me, but obviously not for him. The rejection stings as I remember how he approached me and then walked away. I couldn't seem to even string two words together, even when he asked me a question. "I was completely tongue-tied."
Lindsay studies my face. "He seems to have gotten under that impenetrable skin of yours."
"I wish I was unaffected by everything, but you're my best friend, you know I'm the opposite." I shake my head ruefully. "Sometimes I wonder if I'll be able to cross the street without feeling something about it."
"But you hide them," Lindsay says earnestly, ignoring my exaggeration. "I don't think you realize how little people can tell about what's going on with you."
"These days, it's better if nobody knows how I'm feeling." I hope she's right. Spreading my unhappiness to everyone around me is a constant worry, I imagine that my black mood is emanating out, like I'm a contaminant. My brief conversation with Edward took my mind off the weight that's always fighting to pull me down, his attention like a shield that had momentarily kept reality at bay. It was nice, a bit euphoric, to feel that unexpected lightness. "He's terrifyingly attractive," I say, a smile tugging at my lips. Lindsay laughs.
"Edward is hot, you should go talk to him again."
We could chat all evening but Lindsay has to talk to everyone else too, and I don't want her to feel like she has to babysit me. I give her a tight hug. "It's been a great show, but I should head out."
I loiter near the entrance for a couple of minutes, telling myself it's because I'm debating whether I should take a cab home. Jacob was haunting my thoughts as usual when I arrived, but he's nowhere to be seen. I'm still hoping he'll show up; not that he's ever been the most reliable guy, and not that he owes me anything, but I did think he'd come. And I wanted to see him. The painful tug in my chest isn't exactly the same as missing Derrick, it isn't the hopeless longing for something I can't have, I just wish he had dropped by.
I have to admit though, encountering Edward has made Jacob's absence less disappointing. Even though nothing happened, it still prevented me from spending the evening looking for someone who's not here. A group of people jostles me as they pass, shrugging into their coats as they head for the door. One of the girls is telling her friends how scary the bird exhibit was, but she's obviously excited about it, whereas the thought of that rustling in the dark fills me with discomfort.
I'm about to leave when I see Edward again. I'm not sure whether I should stop to say goodbye or walk out the door, until I notice that he's talking to a girl. I surreptitiously peek over at them, she's reaching out and touching him while she talks, stepping closer to him so that they're only a gesture away from an intimate embrace. I don't look away soon enough, and Edward's eyes rise to meet mine. He says something to her but his eyes never leave mine, and I stumble into someone in my distraction.
"I'm sorry," I apologize to the couple I bumped into. When I look back, Edward's gaze is no longer on me. I push back against my disappointment, and out the heavy front doors.