Page 18 of All Our Almosts

“I love it,” I say.

Andy doesn’t reply, just tilts his head to the side a notch.

We’re shoulder-to-shoulder in the Gardener Museum’s famous Blue Room. It’s famous because—get this—there was a literal heist here. It was back in the ‘80’s or ‘90’s I’m pretty sure, and real-life art thieves came in and cut the art out of its frames and just walked out the front door with, like, Rembrandts rolled up in their back pockets. But Isabella Stewart Gardener had put so much love and care into curating each room of this museum—which used to be her house, by the way—that she said in her will that nothing could ever be moved under any circumstances, so the museum just had to leave the empty frames hanging where they were.

It’s a really good story, and honestly I’m sure the museum has made a mint off of it. Bummer about the Rembrandts, though.

“I just think it’s amazing,” I explain. My gaze doesn’t leave the ornate gold frame, which now surrounds nothing but powder-blue brocade wallpaper. “They took a tragedy and turned it into its own kind of art.”

“Still a tragedy,” Andy returns flatly.

I turn towards him. “Would it kill you to look on the bright side?”

“Would it kill you to look on the main, obviously bad side?”

“Oh sure, I’m sorry. I forgot the first rule of a fun night out: focus on the bad side. Should we chat about our relationships with our dads next? Or maybe the untimely deaths of childhood pets?”

He fights a smile. “The empty frame looks ridiculous. Admit it.”

“I will do no such thing.”

The night goes on much like this. I point out my favorite pieces; Andy responds with shrugs and grunts. But by the time we’ve each had a few glasses of wine and listened to a strangely good bass/harp duo, his mask starts to slip.

“Not to be that guy,” he says in a slightly tipsy whisper, “but I’m pretty sure I could’ve done that.”

We’re in the museum’s New Wing now, having already wandered the entirety of the old mansion house. This area is basically one big room of white walls and sparse modern art, including the current object of Andy’s ire: a large vertical piece covered in an abstract spray of blues and yellows.

“Ah, but you didn’t,” I whisper back. “That’s the thing about art, you have to actually make it to get credit.”

“Would we call this insipid Pollock imitation ‘art’?”

“You are such a snob, Walsh.”

I shove his shoulder sideways, but he catches my arm and pulls our bodies back together, clasping a hand over my mouth that makes me realize just how loud I’m being.

“I’m not a snob,” he smirks, overcompensating for my volume with a whisper. “I just think my mom had something like this on her fridge when I was about six.”

I drag his hand from my mouth and lean towards him. “Maybe this piece isn’t the problem. Maybe you’re a prodigy. You’ve set the bar too high.”

“Maybe you’re just too generous,” he insists. “I want to know which piece in this room you hate the most.”

I realize I’m still holding his hand with both of mine, and let it drop as casually as I can. “Okay, but in exchange you have to tell me which piece you feel an emotional connection to.”

Andy rolls his eyes dramatically. “It couldn’t just be which one I like best? It has to be an ‘emotional connection’?”

“Yes. I want you raw and vulnerable, Andrew.”

“You’re the worst.” He shakes his head, even as he starts to scan the gallery room. “Alright, divide and conquer. Let’s give ourselves ten minutes to choose something, then we’ll meet back here and show each other.”

“Deal.” I extend my hand. He shakes it once, firmly, before heading off.

When you think about it, Andy has a much easier prompt than I have. He just has to feel any emotion about a piece. My emotion has to specifically be hate. And as someone without an artistic bone in her body, I suspect the pieces I “hate” are actually ones I just don’t understand. It’s not the artist’s fault I’m a plebian.

I glance over at Andy, who’s scowling violently at a sculpture that—to be fair—does look like a pile of garbage on a table. But the overt disdain on his face is so funny to me that I have to bite my lips between my teeth to keep from giggling out loud.

People think Andy is hard to read because he’s not very talkative, but he’s really an open book if you bother to learn the language.

But back to the task at hand: a piece I hate.