Page 23 of A Beginner's Guide to Forever
“The work you do is incredible. I’m very impressed,” he says, smiling, watching me, listening intently to everything I say.
“My father always said you could get your hands dirty or you could get your soul dirty. I guess I chose my hands ...” I’m still talking when he presses my back to the wall and kisses me. It’s a surprise—the press of his full mouth to mine.
Footsteps of a gallery attendant interrupt the moment, and I pull away.
“Behave,” I whisper.
“I’ll try.”
A museum security guard watches us as we stroll past. Perhaps we look suspicious. Or perhaps the security guard is wondering what I’m doing with this much younger man.
“This way,” Hart says, directing me. When we reach the floor that contains the exhibit, I’m suddenly very glad that I agreed to come. It’s like getting an inside, intimate look at his family’s legacy.
The first piece we stop to admire is a postimpressionism landscape with thick, heavy brushstrokes in a sea of colors—blues, grays, greens, and browns. It’s lovely.
Next there’s a large charcoal sketch of an owl that’s very striking. I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s hard to believe that all this art was in a private collection in someone’s home.
“Come on, I want to show you my favorite piece.” He takes my hand and tugs me along. He’s like a kid in a candy store, and I giggle.
“The Basquiat?”
He nods, grinning.
We head past the Chinese pottery, and he points out his mother’s favorite piece of the collection—a very small and simple sketch of a Victorian lady carrying an umbrella. Finally we stop in front of the Basquiat piece.
While Hart gazes at the large canvas with its bold, chaotic lines, I tilt my head, studying it.
“What do you like about it?” I ask.
He considers my question, shoving one hand into his pocket. “It’s real. It’s not perfect. And it’s not trying to be. There’s movement, but it’s also very grounding.”
I nod, agreeing with his assessment.
He’s quiet as he gazes at the canvas, allowing me to study his profile. He’s beautiful.
After a moment, we continue, and I pause to look at an oil painting of a boat on a turbulent sea.
Hart stands behind me. I can feel the heat of his body, sense his closeness. I try to put my finger on his scent. A mix of expensive shampoo, bodywash, and something that’s uniquely him.
After a moment, I feel the sweep of his fingertips along my spine, leaving tingles in their wake that I feeleverywhere.
“What are we doing?” I breathe. He arranges my hair, lifting it off my neck.
“Admiring the art,” he whispers. I feel the press of his lips to my bare shoulder. “Why? What is it that you think we’re doing?”
My lips part, and I inhale. “Is this how you normally admire art?”
“Sometimes,” he admits sheepishly. “When the art stirs something inside of me.”
He makes me feel light as a feather, so far from any stress or worry. So far from my life in Nairobi and the pressure of my work. “Isn’t this piece from your great-aunt’s house?”
He chuckles darkly, knowing he’s been caught. “True. Okay maybe it’s not the art that’s inspiring me.”
“No?” I challenge.
“No.” His fingertip skates across my spine while my heart hammers out a wild, frantic rhythm. “It’s you.”
It’s in that moment that I know. My attraction to him isn’t just physical. He’s smart, funny, and interesting. He makes me feel things that I haven’t felt in ages—maybe ever. I like him. Yet my brain flashes to him with any number of suitable girls who come from well-respected families, girls who are age appropriate for him, and my stomach falls.
