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“Hmm?”
“Is this a date?”
I almost cough, taking a sip from my now lukewarm coffee. “What?”
“A date. Is it a date?”
“Yeah.” I clear my throat. “I mean I think so.”
“Oh.” Her cheeks color as she nods. “I’ve never been on one before. Not, like, a real one.”
I know, I want to say. And I’m sorry, Lil.
Instead, I smile and admit, “Yeah. Me neither.”
Something I’ve said makes her almost giddy as she finally reaches out to take a bite of the cinnamon roll.
She eats mostly in the quiet—until her phone buzzes on the table, a call from her dad. And my heart soars as she flips it over on the table and slides it away from herself, like just the distance will make it stop.
There’s a smear of paint on the back of her hand. Indigo blue.
She finished the last bite before her eyes go wide and through a full mouth, she mutters, “I’m sorry. I should’ve asked—did you want it?”
“No, Lil,” I say with a chuckle. “But finish up. Let’s go.”
Her shoulders deflate. “Is it over already?”
“No. But I want to take you somewhere.”
We start walking down the main street. It’s still a bit icy, but the snow is melting and it’s not too piercing cold. Lily walks close to my side, taking two or three steps to my one stride.
“Are you going to hold my hand?” she asks. “Since we’re on a date?”
“Yeah.” I grin, slipping mine into her much smaller one.
The art gallery is only a block or two down the quaint downtown street. It’s warm and homey, Boston architecture, but a smaller town feel. I’ve never been in the gallery, but I saw it when I first moved here and have stood just outside more times than I can count.
Art itself is associated with Lily. It’s inked so deep into my skin that even my body feels associated with her. A shrine to her.
“Here?” she asks excitedly. I nod and open the door for her to enter before me. We’re barely two steps in before the woman in the back calls out, “Lily?”
“Oh!” She perks up, straightening and stepping back into my side. “Hi, Dr. Ann.”
Lily looks up at me a bit shyly as she explains, “This is my art professor.”
“Here to check it out before the show?”
“The show?” I ask. Somehow, though it shouldn’t be possible, Lily flushes darker.
“It’s . . . my art show. We have one in a few weeks.”
Looking up at her young professor with what I hope is a reassuring smile, I ask, “Do we need tickets to come?”
She shakes her head. “No. All are welcome.” Then she meets Lily’s wandering gaze again. “Lily? Can I show you around a bit?”
I push her back with my hand, shoving her lightly to walk with the kind woman around the gallery to inspect the art Lily’s already been distracted by. Taking a grape sucker out of my pocket, I slip the wrapper off and swirl it over my tongue, giving them space but looking over the works as well.
It’s a good half hour before they finish, both excitedly talking about the art, Lily’s work, and—from what I gather eavesdropping—even Van Gogh.
