"Your first big Art Show," Watts said proudly as they examined the placement of Keith's painting.
City at Night. That's what he'd called it. Watts had pushed for something a bit more descriptive, but Keith hadn't been willing to budge. Ultimately, she decided that he was probably right. After all, he knew about art and she knew about music. If he'd ever suggested that she choke up a little on one of her strokes, she'd have broken a drumstick over his head.
Watts cocked her head to one side, then the other, examining the presentation. The lighting was good. The location was good. Most of the adjacent art was not so good. In her opinion, those were all positive things. "I hope you realize what a monumentally big deal this is. It's your first show, Keith."
"I'm not sure that it counts as a 'monumentally big deal' when you work part-time at the Gallery that's running the Show. And besides, I only have one painting here. I would hardly call it my Show."
"Why do you always have to be so self-deprecating?" she grumbled. "It's a Show for 'up and coming new artists.' You're an 'up and coming new artist.' It's your Show. And you should trust me. As a soon-to-be college graduate, I know a thing or two."
"You know a thing or two about art?" he inquired with an indulgent smile.
"I know a thing or two about everything."
"If you say so," he said, sliding his arm around her shoulder.
"Hey, I put on a dress for this. Trust me, it is a big deal."
"I like you in a dress," he told her, easing her into a half hug.
"Believe me. I know. We almost didn't make it out of the apartment because you liked my dress so much. Just don't get used to it," she warned him. "Tomorrow, it's back to a steady diet of ripped jeans and fringed gloves."
"Do you want to walk around and check out some of the other pieces?" he asked, easing them away from his painting.
Watts scowled. "Are you kidding me? Have you seen the competition? Yours is pretty much the only game in town. I mean, get a load of that one around the corner. A trail of purple polka dots and three green stripes? Even I could do that."
"Watts, you can't say that stuff out loud. The artist might hear you."
"Oh please. Like they haven't heard it before . . . ."
"Are you coming or not?" he asked.
"Not," she told him. "I think I'll hang back and keep an eye on the foot traffic around your painting." When he seemed hesitant about leaving her, she held up her hands and added, "I promise not to speak. I'll only observe."
Keith slipped into another room, and Watts leaned against the wall across from his painting. It was one of his best—a wet cityscape at night with lots of color and depth. To Watts, the painting felt alive, even though the only living inhabitant was a silhouetted figure walking along the sidewalk. She suspected that the figure was her, but she'd never asked Keith about it for the simple reason that she didn't want to be told she was wrong.
As Watts staked out Keith's painting, small waves of people filtered through the room, talking in hushed voices, with most of them saying positive things about his work. A few people were more critical, citing a misuse of color or in the case of one truly misguided individual, "cacophonous overtones that reeked of amateurism." Watts considered it a personal triumph that the man walked away without a fist-sized hole in his face.
One man lingered longer than the others. Balding and enigmatic with a well-cut suit and tie, he examined Keith's painting for so long that Watts began to wonder if he'd fallen asleep. Or maybe he was going to try for a "grab and go." In either case, Watts had eyes on him. If he pitched forward, she'd at least make an effort to catch him. And if he yanked the painting off the wall and made a dash for the door, she'd manhandle him until he dropped it. The guy looked like a wimp. She could totally take him.
When the narcoleptic thief finally did turn around and address her, Watts was completely caught off guard. She hadn't even realized he was aware of her presence. "Are you the artist?" he asked.
Still stunned, she shook her head. "No."
The man chuckled. "Oh, I thought you might be. You have that look that artists sometimes get when they're scrutinizing their own work, looking for deeper meaning and that sort of thing."
"The artist is my boyfriend," she offered instead, deciding that it was probably unwise to tell him what she'd really been thinking.
"I see," the man said, glancing back at the painting.
"Well, tell your boyfriend I'm buying his painting. And if you would, ask him to give me a call." He handed Watts his business card.
"Definitely." Watts took the card and watched as the man walked away.
Not long after that, Keith returned. The crowd was thinning, indicating that the event was winding down.
"Are you ready to go?" he asked, extending a hand to her.
Instead, she passed him the business card.
"Who's Edmund Devereaux?"
"The guy who just bought your painting," Watts informed him, excited that she got to be the one to deliver the news.
"You're kidding, right?"
She rolled her eyes. "I almost punched a guy for trash talking your technique. Does that sound like a person who's not taking this seriously?"
"Well, what did he say?"
"Not much." She shrugged. "Just that he's buying your painting. And he wants you to call him. The card says he owns a Gallery in New York."
"Is this for real?"
"Yes," she laughed, looping her arm through his and guiding him toward the front of the Gallery. "I told you it was a 'monumentally big deal.' You know, one day, you're going to realize that I'm almost always right . . . ."
"It's a nice night. Let's take a walk," Keith suggested as they exited the Gallery.
"Okay," she agreed, sounding unconvinced. "But my car's in the lot, you know."
"I know. We rode here together. Or have you forgotten?" he teased her as he laced his fingers through hers and pulled her toward the sidewalk. "We can come back for the car later."
It was late, and he had an early class the next morning. Yet he wanted to go for a walk. In hindsight, Watts realized she should have heard loud, clanging alarm bells. How Keith managed to catch her asleep at the wheel she'd never know.
They were three blocks away from the Gallery when he steered her into a nearby park. It was one of their favorite makeout/hangout spots. Keith had even painted a landscape of their preferred swath of grass and the surrounding vegetation. The point was that it was not an unfamiliar place to Watts, and she later wondered if that might have been why she didn't foresee what was coming.
He nudged her onto a walking path surrounding a small pond, and that's when it happened.
"So help me, Keith, don't you dare." Her tone was firm and commanding. "Keith. Keith. Absolutely not."
He completely ignored her. "I don't care what you say, Watts. I'm doing it," he affirmed in that quietly infuriating tone that made her shiver in the best possible way.
And there it was. One knee and a ring. Could it get any more "white picket fence" than that? It was everything Watts despised about conventionality and exactly the sort of gesture that she spent so much of her time mocking. And yet, she found herself almost . . . dear Lord, how could this be happening? As she looked down at Keith, who seemed blissfully unconcerned about her overt show of disdain, a tear ran down her cheek. It was like every single rom com she'd ever mocked rolled up into one pathetic, heart-stopping overture. Bleck.
Watts couldn't help herself. She dropped to the ground in front of him on both knees and, looking defeated, she leaned in and kissed him hard.
"You didn't let me finish," he mumbled against her lips.
"You know the answer."
"All the same, it'd be nice if you'd let me ask the question."
"Fine. Fine," she said. She decided it was probably best to indulge him. "Knock yourself out. Far be it for me to ruin the experience for you."
"Thank you," he told her, inhaling a shallow breath as he smiled nervously at her. Good grief, she thought, trying not to roll her eyes. He knew she was a sure thing. And yet, the entire dog and pony show was still sickeningly endearing. In their quieter, more honest moments, Keith had often talked about the things that she deserved from life—happiness, stability, hope . . . all of the good things, as he'd once described them. He wanted those things for her with a tenacity that rivaled her own doubts about their existence.
As he chewed his bottom lip, Watts thought she might explode with love for Keith.
"Do you remember how we met?" he asked.
"Yeah, I remember. Third grade. Ms. Skeritt's class. You were chronically shy."
"And you were chronically angry," he laughed. "I was afraid of you."
"No, you weren't."
"Yeah, I was," he insisted. "A little bit. But then I realized you didn't actually carry a switchblade in your back pocket. It was just a rumor."
"I'm the one who started that rumor. Did you know that?"
"I suspected as much," he admitted. "I remember the first day we spoke to each other. I was walking home from school. It was a Tuesday afternoon. John Vega used to hang out behind the pizza restaurant smoking his older brother's cigarettes. He saw me walking by, and for no reason at all, he decided to start something. Usually, he just yelled things at me, but that day he must've been worked up about something."
"Ugh. That guy was a total loser. I wasn't far behind you on the sidewalk, and I saw him make a move in your direction," Watts said, easily picking up the story. It was a pivotal moment in her life and one that never really left her. "He had that feral look in his eyes, and I just knew you were about to get the shit knocked out of you."
"Fortunately, you got there before he did. Do you remember what you said?"
"Duh. I said, 'Let's kick this guy's ass.'"
"I was ready to run. I definitely would've tried to lose him if you hadn't been there."
"He wasn't that scary," she said.
"Watts, he had facial hair and a scorpion tattoo on his neck."
"Oh please." She sneered. "That tattoo was a stick-on."
"Admit it," Keith persisted. "You know he was intimidating."
"Okay. Fine. Yes, he was intimidating."
"But we fought him together."
"Oh man, he beat the crap out of us," she groaned. "My bruises had bruises."
Keith winced. "Yeah, he did. But from that moment on, you were always there. No matter what the problem was, I knew we could face it together and we'd be okay. We might come away from the experience with a broken finger and a black eye, but we'd be okay."
"Yeah, well, misery loves company."
"Something like that," he agreed, still smiling. "You know, after that day, I was never afraid again. I knew you'd always have my back."
She nodded. "And I knew you'd have mine. It was the two of us against the world."
"Exactly." He slid the ring onto her finger and it settled into place.
Looking down at her hand, she said, "You do realize you never actually asked the question, don't you?"
"I guess I decided to go in a different direction."
"Good choice," she commended him. "So, what happens next?"
"The usual," he predicted. "We graduate again."
"And become self-supporting adults," she added.
"After an acceptable amount of time, we'll have a small wedding with a bride who may or may not be wearing a traditional wedding dress."
"She will not."
"Then, we'll adopt a big, goofy-looking dog who likes to sleep at the foot of the bed."
"He'll be a rescue. Preferably a mutt. Definitely not one of those dogs that comes with 'papers.'"
"Eventually, we'll have 2.5 kids."
"Kids? You're really asking a lot here."
"Oh, and we can't forget about the house," he told her. "Three bedrooms, an art studio, a drum set in the basement and a white picket fence . . . ."
"Lose the fence and you've got yourself a deal."