“Drew, did you do this? It’s beautiful!”
He shrugged. “I needed a divider between the rooms, and walls are so last year, you know?”
I laughed. I had only been to one or two of Drew’s previous apartments. His living area was clean, with a surprising sense of style. I briefly remembered what Greg’s bachelor pad had looked like—all utility, simple furniture and faux wood. Drew’s had flair—a small sculpture, a tray of sand and marbles on the coffee table, not a Yankee candle in sight. Very chic. Clearly, the handmade art was all one of kind, not chain store accessorized, like my own house.
When I said as much, he laughed. “Well, Claire, I am an artist. Which reminds me. Guess what we’re doing tonight?”
“What?”
“We’re going to a gallery opening.” My jaw dropped. I had brought nothing to wear to an event like that.
“Don’t panic. It’s just a one-room gallery a few blocks over. They’re showing my collection. Remember the one I told you about, with the lunchtime affairs?”
I nodded. How could I forget?
“It’s called Illicit. Please don’t say no. I want you to see it.” His took my hand, his touch sent pulsing jolts up my arms, curling my toes.
“What do I wear?” I asked, slowly withdrawing my hand. My eyes held his for a beat.
“Anything you want. It’s a small reception, probably less than twenty people. But it’s the art world. Everyone dresses crazy. You’ll be fine. Don’t worry. And besides, you’re going with me, and I’m the star of the evening.” He performed a deep bow, tipping an imaginary hat.
I went to his guest room to unpack and figure out what to wear. I had packed the wrap dress Sarah had raved about in San Diego, but it looked so Mom-ish. I pulled out a pair of black leggings and a black boat-neck glitter sweater. The outfit was fashionable and not me at all. I had taken it off of a mannequin at a store where I had never shopped before because the shop was out-of-my-league trendy. I put the ensemble on in front of the mirror and could barely believe my reflection. I added a pair of pointy-toed flats and shyly opened the door.
Drew was relaxing on the couch, flipping through a magazine. He whistled when he saw me. “Claire, you have seriously changed your style!” He motioned for me to turn around. “I hardly recognize you. It’s like you’re one of my friends or something!”
I swatted at him, then dug through my purse for a mint. When I looked up, I met his gaze, his eyes reflecting desire and regret at once. For a moment, I wished I hadn’t come.
He recovered so quickly, I wondered if I actually saw anything at all. “Come on. Let’s go. I can’t wait to show you off. I’m pretty sure all my friends think I’ve made you up.” He put his arm around my shoulder, hugging me to him. We paused in the doorway, and he moved a piece of hair away from my face. I inhaled sharply, waiting. “I hope you like the photographs, Claire. I’m sorry if I offended you with the topic. But the truth is, somehow, I couldn’t stop myself.”
His gaze was so intense, I only half-listened. Things had shifted with me. Drew was no longer my closest friend when I was in need. Somehow, he had become an amazing, beautiful man. The longing was astounding. I’ve been denied by him so frequently in my life, I couldn’t bring myself to initiate even a kiss. My insides twisted at the thought.
I stepped back and glanced at the wall across the room. “Listen, don’t worry about it. It’s fine.” I smiled up at him with false bravado and kissed his cheek. “I can’t wait to see them.”
Then, I walked through the door and into the hall, deliberately breaking the spell. He followed, locking the door behind him. When he faced me again, we were back to Drew and Claire, the way things used to be, which was still sort of in-between.
The gallery looked like a regular brownstone, except the entire first floor had been converted to a one-room art showcase. As Drew had predicted, about twenty people were milling around, and when we walked in the door, Drew was greeted by a round of applause. He repeated his dramatic bow, then ran his hand through his hair, scratching at his neck nervously.
He grasped my hand. “Everyone, this is Claire Barnes. If you know me well enough, you’ve heard a lot about her. Be nice to her.” He lowered his voice to a stage whisper. “She’s from the suburbs.”
Titters of laughter followed his comment. Nice. Thanks, Drew. I was handed a bowl-like glass of merlot. Drew’s friends seemed accommodating and kind, not what I’d expected from city artists. I had prepared myself for condescension, even scorn.