Page 43 of Love Is an Art
I want to tell him, but I also don’t want to. He doesn’t seem like he’ll forgive my lying to him.
He didn’t appear to be friends with Jurgen, based on that conversation. But that could have been staged. And Zeke wondering whether Jurgen is a scam artist, to eventually say that he doesn’t think so, in the role of a “neutral third party,” could be part of the ploy.
He looked like he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t when I first popped up next to them. I shake my head. I don’t know what to think. Zeke couldn’t be part of the scam, could he? But why did he have that guilty expression?
I don’t know.I’m going to enjoy this date for now and then make the decision as to whether I can trust him to tell him the truth at the end.
Ididshare my feelings with Wyatt—my desire to work for FLAFL and my fears about leaving White & Gilman. But maybe not all my fears. I was afraid to look too vulnerable. Because those vulnerabilities can be taken advantage of by someone you love, like what happened to my friend’s mom.
“Let’s find the nearest Citi Bike station,” Zeke says.
I give him the extra bicycle helmet from my backpack and clip on my own. I often bicycle home from work for exercise and as a good way to clear my head. But Miranda was also adamant that an unsuccessful artist cannot take cabs.
“Biking across the Brooklyn Bridge should be cool,” I say.
Zeke takes the helmet and looks at me. He clips it on. “But what about the paintings?”
“We have to get one of the bikes with the wide baskets. They’ll fit. I’ve carried paintings in Citi Bikes before. One of our friends held a show of Miranda’s art in her apartment, and we biked the paintings over.”
I have a Citi Bike membership, so I wait for Zeke to pay for his rental.
He clicks on the app. “Or should I buy a membership if we’re going to be hanging out a lot?”
I blink. I love how up front he is. It’s so Dutch. Thijs was like that. “I feel I’ve made you spend enough money on this date.”
I put the paintings in my basket as he pulls out a bicycle and adjusts the seat to his height.
“How did you learn to play billiards so well?” he asks.
“I bartended at a bar with a billiards table one summer during college, and when it wasn’t busy, the staff played billiards. And Miranda now bartends at a bar with billiards tables, so I play often when waiting for her to get off work.”
He shakes his head. “I don’t usually lose.”
“How’d you get so good?”
“I studied at the University of Amsterdam as part of a semester abroad program—you know, looking for my roots and meeting extended family over there,” he says. “I spent a lot of time in bars playing billiards with some Dutch friends I made there.”
“That sounds like a fun semester.”
“It was.” He smiles. “Do you know how to get to the Brooklyn Bridge bike path?”
“No. I haven’t been there in years. Have you?”
“I’ve never biked over the Brooklyn Bridge. I’m excited. We need to take a picture of us in the middle with the view.”
I nod. It’s dusk now, and the sky has turned an amazing deep blue.
Suddenly, he leans over and adjusts my helmet so it’s covering my forehead. His face is close to mine, and my heart pounds. His fingers graze my cheeks gently as he tightens the strap on my helmet. I think I’ve stopped breathing.
“Your helmet is too far back. It’s not protecting your forehead.” He leans back to check, and his gaze feels like a physical caress. He gets on his bike.
“Thanks.” I breathe again. “The strap gets loose, and then I forget to tighten it.”
I look down at Google maps to collect myself and check the route. It looks complicated, with a circular loop in a park. I show it to Zeke. His phone shows a different route, more like a Z.
“Let’s go and ask some other bikers on the way,” I say.
“Or we make a left and then a right here.”
