Page 56 of Don't Tell Me How It Ends
I join the rest of Ro’s admirers in their applause. Ro’s eyes, equal parts sure and shy, stay trained on me. And even in thiscrowded gallery, among a mass of bodies and noise under endless spotlights, I could swear it’s only him and me.
—
I want to go to Ro—to congratulate him and study his piece for any messages he might’ve left for me. I want to be beside him, to share in the fervent energy pulsing from his skin, but bodies close in around him too quickly. An influx of people desperate for a piece of him move into his orbit, and I’m left just outside of it, standing still.
At the far end of the room, Paul nods with obvious pride and respect for his friend. When he sees me watching, he raises his drink in my direction, and though I return the gesture, the cool liquid on my tongue burns hot as I remember my place in all this. This is notourmoment. It’s Ro’s.
I’ve only taken a few steps toward the quieter side of the gallery when my phone pings.
10:17pm
Ro:I don’t see you.
Me:checking out some other work while you do your thing.
Me:That was incredible by the way!
Ro:Thank you. But come back.
Ro:Or I’ll come to you.
Me:No. You’re busy! I’ll find you when the crowd thins out.
Ro:You sure? I just need to talk to one BK curator. then we’ll go.
Ro:Hungry? Dinner?
Me:Yeah, but take your time. Seriously. I’m good.
And Iamgood. It’s the truth. But it’s not thewholetruth.
Walking away from him just now had been the first lie I’d told Ro since I met him.
It’s more than a realization, it’s a warning. Because even more than I’d wanted to go to him, I’d wanted to be easy. And I know exactly when and why people start lying to be easier for each other.
It wasn’t supposed to be like that with Ro.
16
Paul catches up to uson our way to the diner and casually invites himself to be our third. Ro apologizes for the intrusion more profusely than he should. I’m actually relieved by Paul’s presence and the distraction he provides.
With Ro locked into a strategy session for their Greenpoint show, he doesn’t notice that my attention’s trained on his long fingers, absentmindedly painting his glass with beads of its own wetness. Doesn’t see me memorizing the paint colors still flecked beneath each of his nails. He doesn’t seem to feel the heat building between us in this red leather booth, leaving the backs of my thighs slick with sweat. Or how my body matches his, breath for breath, in a way it never did before today.
I’m grateful not to be alone with Ro. Not yet, anyway.
But soon we’re back in his truck, heading home, and the easy silence we shared driving into the city is changed. Charged now, like the faintest spark of a single carelessly chosen word could ignite us into who knows what. And by the way his eyes stray from the road to seek me out in the darkness, I can’t help but wonder if he feels it too.
He clears his throat, and I’m braced in anticipation.
“You got quiet after the show.”
“Did I?”Yes.“Probably just tired.”Lie.“Tonight really was incredible,” I say, honestly. “You’re amazing—yourworkis amazing. I could’ve watched you paint all night.”
You’re amazing? Really?
So much for asinglecareless word. I just sputtered out like ten. But as always, Ro doesn’t push me where he knows I don’t want to go.
“Sounds like the Brooklyn gallery wants to make an offer on the piece before I even set a price.”
