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“Clowns can be very off putting. Do you know who painted this?”
“No.” She shook her head. “They’re popping up all over town. It is a thing now. And the fact that you like it tells me that you have terrible taste.”
I nodded. “Yes, you’re right. I have terrible taste.”
I walked a bit to the right to look more at the clown. He had sad eyes. The more I stared at them, the more that was obvious to me. I’d be the girl who had terrible taste for a bit. That might be a fucking relief.
I just wondered if the person who painted this clown had wanted to say something about how we see things.
I looked over at the purple girl. “My mother was a painter.”
“Yes?” She pushed her hair over her shoulder. “Did she have any success?”
“Her name was Meredith Scott.” I couldn’t remember the last time I’d spoken her name. It was as though sometimes you put words away so deep inside a box labeled “do not say” that the next time you actually had to utter them, they were hard to form on your tongue. Or maybe it was just me.
Her mouth fell open. “Your mother was Meredith Scott?”
I knew then as she stared at me that she understood a lot about art and something more, it hadn’t been an accident that she came out here to talk about this painting. Artists were a rare breed. I’d only ever observed them from afar, and she was way too invested in talking about this clown with a stranger to truly hate this painting.
“This painting you did of this clown is brilliant. Haunting. Not awful at all. And I’ll never forget it.”
“Layla.” Zeke yelled my name as he ran around the corner. “There you are. When did I lose you?”
I didn’t turn to look at him but kept my eyes on the purple artist. “Yes, my mother was Meredith Scott. And you are really talented. I have great taste.”
She grinned at me, her first real smile, and only then did I turn to Zeke. He was gorgeous and sweaty. Immediately, I remembered he’d turned me down that morning when I’d offered him sex.
“You didn’t have to come back for me; I was going home. I just met…” I motioned toward where the artist should be, but she rounded the corner and was gone. “That person. And I stopped to talk about this clown.”
He stared at her and then me. “That was the purple dabbler, wasn’t it?”
“Who?” Okay, I wasn’t going to notice how his muscles were things of beauty. Men shouldn’t get to be so gorgeous.
“The purple dabbler. An artist is tagging all over Paris. People get glimpses of her in purple but that is it. Did she talk to you?”
I shrugged, guessing we could equally be ignorant about each other. I didn’t know she was famous, and she didn’t know I was notorious. Maybe she had liked that as much as I had.
“You didn’t have to stop for me. I’m good. I was making my way home. Go back for your run.”
He looked around. “You made it about two miles. That’s not bad for never running.”
“Well, maybe I’m a stronger runner in my heels and a wedding dress.”
Zeke stroked his hand through his hair, and I wished he were doing it to mine. “Was that just a few days ago? Feels like a lot longer.”
“Well, I have that effect on people.” I batted my eyes. “One minute with me feels like a lifetime. I can be too much.”
“Hey.” The anger in his voice surprised me. “Don’t talk about yourself that way. You’re a lovely human being. Amazing, really. Look at you. You’re in Paris days, and you’re making friends with the purple dabbler.”
“I wouldn’t say friends. More like we spoke on the street. Come on. Let’s go.”
I didn’t want to think about what his complimenting me did to me, how it made me feel warm inside. It was better to hold on to the embarrassment of this morning. That way I could never make that mistake again.
“Oh no.” He glared at me. “You ran here. Run home. Finish strong. Come on, I’ll stay with you.”
I shook my head. “That’ll be agony for you. I’ll give running back a try, but you go your pace and I’ll go mine. I’ve already humiliated myself in front of you once for the day.”
Zeke rocked back on his heels. “What are you talking about?”
