Page 50 of Pride & Precedents

"I told you they were amazing," I say, not bothering to hide the smugness in my voice. He rolls his eyes, but still finishes my cookie, plus his own triple chocolate chip biscotti.

"So," he asks, a Cheshire Cat smile spreading across his face, "Where to next?"

"I chose breakfast. You can choose what's next."

Henry wiggles his fingers like a cartoon villain.

"Oooh! My choice?" He thinks for a moment while I finish the last of my cannoli.

"How about MoMa?"

I sink into my chair.

"Ugh. On a Saturday? That place is going to be packed, Henry." He tugs me out of my chair and throws our trash in the bin as he shepherds us towards the exit.

"C'mon, party pooper. It'll be fun."

I poke out my lip like a sullen child forced to eat my vegetables when I really want cake, but his enthusiasm is contagious and I'm grinning by the time a cab pulls up.

"Every Sunday. Not exceptions," he says, putting his hand on the small of my back to guide me around an influencer too oblivious to notice she's blocking the flow of traffic. It's crowded, as I expected, but Henry pulled his donor card out, smirking when the ushers let us skip the line. His constant touches and looks as we walk through the 1880s-1940s collection have me practically buzzing.

"That's impressive. Rory and Gabe and I try to get together regularly, but it's not every week. Rory and I sometimes walk the High Line when she's not on location.

"I feel like it's so easy for family—even close family—to drift apart when life gets hectic. Mom was really the glue of the family, and I tried to become that glue as much as I could when she died."

We're both silent, and Henry squeezes my hand. He doesn't offer empty condolences years too late. He just listens, letting the memories settle between us. We move from theSix Sculpturesinstallation into an exhibit featuring Picasso'sLes Demoiselles d'Avignon.

"Oh," I sigh. "IlovePicasso. It's amazing how he could create entire figures from broken planes and shards of color. His style is completely unique and instantly recognizable."

Henry nods and leans close to whisper in my ear.

"I love how radical it was for the time. Did you know these women are based on sex workers in Barcelona's red-light district?" My eyes widen and he grins. "Yeah. It was so shocking Picasso didn't display it until nine years after it was completed."

Of course Henry's an art buff.As we move on toA Cubist Salon, I'm struck again by what a shame it is that no one at BBS&P knowsthisHenry. They only know the untouchable Sub Zero: successful, hot as sin, but cold as ice.ThisHenry is a family man and an art enthusiast, silly enough to steal your cookie and caring enough to pull you out of the way of oblivious passersby.

Ready for art that's a bit more modern, I guide us to theCalligraphic Abstractionexhibit one floor down. It's amazing how many different interpretations there are of infusing abstract art with systems of writing. My favorite is Erol Akyavas's "The Glory of the Kings", while Henry prefers Dorothy Dehner's "Encounter", which resembles totems made of symbols.

I make a point to see theDomestic DisruptionandDivided States of Americaexhibits, and Henry lightens the mood by leading us to Mike Kelley'sDeodorized Central Mass with Satellites, a collection of sculptures made entirely of plush toys. By the time we make it back to the first floor, our fingers are intertwined.

My stomach makes an embarrassing sound and Henry looks down at me, alarmed.

"Was that your stomach, Camila?" My cheeks redden.

"No." He looks at me doubtfully. "All right. Yes. But, in my defence, breakfast was like four hours ago and fighting the crowds really takes it out of you."

Henry looks at his watch and winces.

"Sorry. I must've lost track of time." He pulls me toward the door, almost tripping over a double stroller in the process. "Capital Grille isn't far from here. Let's get you fed."

We start down Sixth Avenue, weaving between Spider Man impersonators and the line of tourists wrapping around Magnolia Bakery.

"Henry," I call, trying to slow down his pace. "Isn't Capital Grille like $100 a person?" It's also where he's taken a few of his other lady friends, if I remember correctly. I hope he's not running his usual date playbook. Whatever's between us hardly feels usual.

"It's around that. But it's worth it. They've got the best steak in Midtown." I pull harder on his hand, until he stops and turns to me.

"I'm sure it's delicious, but I don't need all that. How about we just stop by Lil Zeus, grab a couple of pita sandwiches, and eat in Bryant Park? It's a beautiful day."

Henry searches my eyes and I try not to squirm. I doubt any of his other dates preferred a food truck over fine dining.

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