Page 52 of Love Is an Art
I stutter. “O-oh yes. But only if you brought the picture of you acting like a CEO at your mom’s desk.”
“My mom emailed it to me. But only if you’re sharing something embarrassing from your past.” He opens his phone and shows me a childhood photo of a tiny him sitting at an enormous desk.
“That’s hardly embarrassing,” I say. “You’re adorable. You definitely have to come up with something better than that.” I show him a picture of me as a seven-year-old in a party dress scrunched up in the corner. “I saw this in the family photo albums and took a picture of it to remind me.”Unfortunately, it doesn’t seem to be doing its job.
“You’re adorable too. How’s that embarrassing?”
“This is embarrassing, but it’s a distinct memory. I was around seven, and my birthday is in the summer, so my mom always threw a big birthday party for me. I was best friends with this boy next door. And he didn’t show up. I remember waiting for him the whole party, upset that he wasn’t there. At the end of the party, I realized that instead of enjoying my party, I’d wasted my birthday waiting for him. I’d resolved never to do that again.”
“Wow.” He’s quiet. “I’m sorry he didn’t show up.” He touches me lightly on the arm.
“It turned out that his mother thought I was a bad influence. We’d been having a water fight the day before, and my T-shirt got wet. My mom brought out a dry T-shirt, and I changed in front of him. At seven, mind you. And his mom thought that was improper.”
“Did you remain friends with him?”
“Yes. Apparently, Iwasa bad influence. He refused to listen to his mom and kept sneaking over.”
“I can understand why.” Zeke steps closer to me, and my heart skitters.
I have to tell him.
“Let’s go down to the sculpture garden,” I say. There is sure to be a private spot there. He can forgive me, and we can go out to dinner and have a good laugh about it. Or he can walk away. And we can ignore each other at our settlement celebration dinner he’s hosting.
It’s better I know now. Because I can’t believe I just shared that memory with him.
We walk through the lobby toward the glass door at the back and step out onto the paved path of the sculpture garden. To the right is a Henry Moore sculpture of a couple embracing. A nice breeze is blowing. A few people are scattered about. I wipe my sweaty hands on my skirt.
I just need to tell him quickly. I rehearse my speech in my head again: I said I was an artist because I was pretending to be an artist to pick up a guy scamming artists. And then you said you hate lawyers and I was afraid to tell you I was a lawyer.It doesn’t sound compelling.
“I have to confess something,” I say.
“Another childhood story?”
“No. Much more recent. And I want to apologize in advance.”
His brow furrows, and then he freezes, his gaze trained over my left shoulder.
“Zeke,” says a woman’s voice behind me.
“Paisley.” His voice is cold.
I turn around. She’s pretty and very polished in a skirt suit, high heels, even nylons. Blow-dried hair. She puts out her hand. Long, manicured nails.
“I’m Paisley, Zeke’s ex.”
I give her my nail-bitten, paint-stained hand in return. She takes it graciously. We shake hands, sizing each other up.
“I’m Tessa,” I say.
“Out a bit early?” Zeke says.
“I could say the same for you,” she says. “But I’m glad you’re getting out and not burying yourself in work. I’m relieved.”
The currents between these two makes me feel like I’m swimming in murky waters against a riptide, and I’m in way over my head.
He scoffs. “Congratulations on your promotion.”
“I have to say, I expected at least an email or a text saying congratulations. Given …” She shakes her head. “But at least you’re out and about.” She stares pointedly at me.
