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“Will you?”
I shrug, then laugh. “Maybe I should hire you instead. You can be one of our artists and then people’s jobs would be safe.”
“I’m not a good artist.”
“I’ll tell you a secret.” I lean in. “No one really is. That’s what makes it so beautiful.”
“Are you always this happy?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?” I pick up one of my fried plantains and shove it in my mouth.
“Life can really suck sometimes.”
“Hmm. It can, I suppose. Especially for the ones who lose their jobs when you show up,” I tease.
“Someone will take mine too someday,” he says.
I nod and grab another thin plantain. “The way I see it is, life hands you all these paint colors. You don’t have a choice in using them—they all have to be used. But you choose which ones to paint your immediate surroundings with. Personally, I like to keep the grays in the background. Like little storm clouds in the distance on a summer day.”
He stares at me again in that scrutinizing way, as if he’s trying to make me out.
“Why do you look at me like that?” I ask.
“Like what?”
“Well.” A nervous little laugh escapes me. “Like I’m one of the paintings in the S Gallery and you can’t figure out if I’m just a bunch of paint splatter or—”
“You’re complex, Emily,” he cuts me off. “I stare at you because youarelike those paintings and I’m trying to understand you.”
“Oh. I never thought of myself as complex,” I admit. “I’m more of a what-you-see-is-what-you-get sort of girl.”
“Nothing but sunshine and rainbows?” he asks. “No tears. All the gray in the background.” There’s a hint of sarcasm woven in there somewhere, but I don’t believe it’s directed at me.
I swallow down another bite. “Is that what you see?”
“It’s what you show.”
“I cry. Sometimes.”
“When was the last time?” he asks, almost daringly, like he believes I won’t be able to reply.
Damn him, he’s right. I struggle to think of a time. “Everyone cries, Noah.”
He tilts his head, his gaze darkening just a bit as it digs into me further, peeling back layers. Suddenly, I do want to cry, just to prove I can.
“Can I get you anything else today?” The server startles me.
I blink rapidly, trying to clear the haze caused by Noah’s intrusion.
“Just the check, please,” Noah replies politely.
“But you haven’t even touched your food,” I say, pointing at his uneaten sandwich.
“And a to-go box, please,” he tells her.
She inclines her head and leaves. A few minutes later, she places the bill on his side of the table.
“Here.” I offer my card, but he waves it away.
