Page 118 of Pretty Obsessed

"Most people don't notice that texture and depth are prolific parts of a lot of art," Emory said softly.

"You're right. I don't think people notice how much texture is added to music." I rubbed my fingers together at my side, itching to touch it.

He came up alongside me, putting his chin on my shoulder. "I always want to touch them too."

"Is that weird?" My fingers followed the line of his pocket, dying for connection after all the doubt.

"I don't think it's weird at all, but I'm probably not the best judge since I had the same urge." He ghosted his hand along my back.

I turned my head to look into his eyes. Neither of us moved, there a breath apart. "Surrounded by art and you're looking at me."

"I can't help it. I haven't been able to help it since that night."

I smiled. His words coloring my happiness. "I'm glad you couldn't."

"Me too."

Voices filtered through the air and we quickly stepped apart. The moment lost but not forgotten. It felt stolen, and the more I thought about it, they all felt that way. All our intimacy felt stolen or rushed. Hidden under the cover of fear.

I hated it.

Iris' words echoed in my ears.The right person will want everything for you, and to be open about it.

But what if I knew in my soul Emory was the right person, how did I reconcile the two?

"Lost in thought or lost in art?" he whispered as we wandered to another gallery.

"Both."

"Do you want to go see the Cézanne drawings?" He hooked his finger around mine, tugging me in a new direction.

"Yeah, alright." I let him lead, expecting him to drop my hand, but he didn't.

Not even when we walked into the busier exhibit. The little bit of contact soared through me. A tiny gesture and yet, so big.

"We should decide where we are going to dinner," I said offhandedly while stopping in front of a painting he was inspecting.

"I've already booked a place. I wanted to surprise you."

I rubbed my thumb over his finger. "What made you do that?"

"I've heard good things. It's Michelin Star-rated and I've always wanted to go. Who better to enjoy it with?” Playfully, he tugged the connection. "I noticed in Japan you like cool restaurants, so when I started to think about your birthday…"

He paid such close attention to details. Things most people could be with a partner for years and never notice, he always noticed. He'd noticed things about Iris I hadn't after years of being friends with him—he saw them right away.

"How do you see through people the way you do? I swear you know me better than I know myself some days."

"I've always thought it was because I was a writer. I notice things people don't, but I think it's also interest. You study what you love—or what excites you." He tried to play it off turning away but he'd said: love.

Had he meant me? Did he love me? How did that fit into any of what we'd discussed? He pulled at my hand, but I didn't move. Too dumbstruck.

"Are you coming?" He glanced over his shoulder.

"Sorry." I studied the color in his cheeks and the curve to his lips like they'd give me the secret to his thoughts.

There had to be more to his wanting to keep this friends. I felt it in my gut. It changed all the ways I felt, redirecting my emotions. I let him pull me, catching up to nudge my shoulder into his. He nudged in return. I inched closer when we stopped to look at another painting, alone again, arms pressed. I tucked our joined hands into his pocket. He side-eyed me but didn't say anything.

I stroked my knuckle over his thigh. "This one is exquisite."

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