Page 21 of Well, Actually
Manhattan passes us in a blur as we make our way uptown, that kernel of excitement sprouting roots and digging into my chest.
It’s the kind of startlingly perfect fall day that reminds me how head-over-heels in love I am with this city—the streaks of gray pavement disrupted with fiery leaves and a morning sky so blue it makes you question reality. New York’s energy flows at different beats and frequencies depending on the day and time of year, but today’s is a hopeful hum, a radiant goodbye to the life of summer and a promise to care for the island through the colder months to come. I’m so lost in the hallways of my thoughts that it takes me a moment to realize the taxi has stopped, the grandeur of the museum rising like a beacon through Cooper’s window.
He lifts his hips and fishes his wallet from his back pocket, pulling out some bills and handing them to the cabbie. “Keep the change,” he says as he unfolds his limbs from the back seat and steps out. He ducks back down, holding out a hand for me.
I stare at his outstretched palm, adrenaline thudding in my chest as my gaze traces up his arm to his face. His expression is still strained, but the curl of his smile is pulling through. “I won’t bite,” he murmurs. “Unless you sayplease.” The fucker winks.
“Pig,” I scoff, recategorizing the delirious warmth in my chest to the fire of indignation as I take his hand. I also successfully ignore the spark that shoots up my arm from where we touch. I mean… not that there was a spark at all. There’s no spark. There’s only my skin crawling from touching an extraterrestrial life form.
“Add it to the list to go over on the podcast,” he says grimly. “I’m sure it’s already a mile long.”
“You’re the gift that keeps on giving when it comes to grievances.” I step out of the car and drop his hand as quickly as possible, making a show of wiping my palm off on my pants.
Cooper watches the movement, his eyes taking their time to climb my body before fixing me with a sly smile. “Ever the charmer, Kitten.”
“Call me that again and I’ll let you find out how these heels taste,” I reply sweetly, walking past him and up the Met’s steps.
Cooper’s laugh is low and close to my ear as he follows. “Aren’t you going to ask me what we’re doing here?”
I’d never give him the satisfaction. “I’ve used a few context clues to narrow it down to an art heist or waiting in the cold for two hours for it to open,” I say, working way too hard to keep my voice even and wheeze-free as I climb the final steps.
“Boo, you’re no fun.” Cooper pouts, and the look isalarmingly adorable, waves of dark hair tumbling across his forehead, gray eyes wide and doe-like behind his glasses.
We’re at a stalemate, my jaw clenched insolently, Cooper’s expression turning downright endearing. I roll my eyes and scoff when he juts his lower lip out, but I give in. Out of boredom.
I clasp my hands in front of my chest, fixing my features into a mask of desperation. “Oh, Rylie Cooper, pretty please tell me what we’ll be doing at the ass-crack of dawn on this date you’ve all but used brute force to get me on for social media clout. I’m justdyingto know.”
He laughs again, a dubious puff of breath. He steps toward me, tilting his head so his forehead almost touches mine.
“Happy to ease your pain.” His words shouldn’t have heat flooding through me, but they do, and I step back, clearing my throat and looking away, praying the wind takes credit for any color on my cheeks. Cooper stares at me for a prolonged moment with a fiendish smile like he can see the warmth licking through my veins. “The Met has a new exhibit—‘Emotions Through Rodin’—showing off some of his best sculptures. And I got us a private tour. Before opening hours.”
“P-private tour?”
He bites his lower lip as he nods. “The place all to ourselves.”
My knees almost buckle, and my hand darts out, grabbing his arm, my lips parting as I try to process what he’s saying. Cooper’s heavy gaze moving from my face to where I touch him breaks me out of my trance. I release him with an exaggerated flex of my hand.
What is this, a fucking swoon? Good god, I need to get agrip. And not one on Cooper’s surprisingly solid bicep. The boy is wiry, but apparently strong ropes of muscle are hidden under those stupid-ass sweatshirts. And well-tailored suits.
Christ.
“Let’s go,” Cooper says, nodding toward the entrance. His hand falls with a whisper of pressure to my back as we walk, and I aggressively reach behind me to remove it as the doors are opened for us. Cooper flashes the tickets on his phone as we walk in.
The museum is beautifully, hauntingly quiet as we’re led through the great hall by our tour guide, who introduces herself as Anya. Our footsteps echo off the tall ceilings in a cadence that matches my heartbeat as we weave through religious works of the Byzantine Empire and medieval times. The guide patiently waits as I hover over various displays, offering some historical tidbits on specific works that catch my eye. I’ve seen all this before, a hundred times at least, but it never stops amazing me, pulling the breath from my chest and making my head swim at the beauty.
“Here we are,” Anya says with barely contained excitement as she stops us in front of the door leading to the special exhibit. “Auguste Rodin is considered by many to be the father of modern sculpture.”
“I’d certainly call him daddy.” Cooper and I speak in unison. My jaw crashes open as my eyes lock with his, our dumb, harmonized joke sitting between us. He blinks a few times, then his smile turns impossibly bright, a cascade of giggles tumbling from us both.
I duck my head, trying to choke down my laughter thatfeels sacrilegious in such a beautiful place, and Cooper’s hand returns to my back, tracing a soothing circle as he similarly shakes in a fruitless effort for control. His touch feels so comfortably welcome, it jolts sobriety through me, and I straighten, stepping away. I can’t let one shared, immature joke crack my resolve to have a miserable time.
After a deep breath, I look back at Anya, flashing her a strained smile in apology. She presses her own lips together in a battle between amusement and horror.
“Right…” she says, letting out an uncomfortable chuckle. “Rodin was a passionate believer that art should be a true reflection of nature, and his collection of work explores the expression of emotions and the human psyche in extreme physical states displayed in his sculptures.” She opens the door, gesturing us inside as she continues her oral history of Rodin. A room has been cleared for the special exhibit, and it feels like stepping into a holy space, my spine tingling as my overeager eyes dance from sculpture to sculpture.
The guide gently leads us through the exhibit. We start withEve (after the fall), the guide speaking to her devastation, her desperation for self-protection. We move along toThe Thinker.Despair. The writhing, sensual arch ofTorso of Adele. The agony ofThe Cry. Anya gives us the history with hushed reverence, her voice filled with wonder and pride as she points out minute details—creases around the eyes, a posture poised with symbolism, the choice of bronze over marble. All of it creates a lump in my throat, Cooper seeming equally awed.
Our eyes lock in the space between the curve of two hands reaching for each other with need. I stare at him fora moment, absorbing the soft curl of his smile, the shallow way he’s breathing like he’s as scared as I am of disrupting the magic.
