Total pages in book: 121
Estimated words: 115198 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 576(@200wpm)___ 461(@250wpm)___ 384(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115198 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 576(@200wpm)___ 461(@250wpm)___ 384(@300wpm)
For a week, my phone buzzes constantly; reporters linger on the street. And for a week, we shut out the world. We order groceries and cook together; we watch movies and play board games. She buys us face masks and we wear them while trading foot massages. She makes me teach her how to dance the jitterbug; I let her paint on me with a set of body paints she orders from Instacart. Most of all, we make love, any and every way we possibly can.
But eventually, real life pushes back in. We both have a lot to figure out. In our quiet moments, lying face-to-face in my bed, we try to plot out what the next page looks like for each of us: Do I retain my faculty position or step into an executive role at the company? Does Anna return to Los Angeles to pursue the promise of these gallery showings or do I convince her to move here and pursue her art closer to me?
My biggest regret is that because of my actions, Anna questions whether she deserves any of the success her art is finding. But she can’t hold on to this insecurity for very long in the face of the true sincerity of my awe. She is a massively talented painter. In the end, we agree to take some time to tie up the loose ends of our lives outside of this burgeoning relationship. She will return to LA; I will meet with my academic higher-ups to forge a plan. And, at least for now, we’ll do the long-distance thing.
ANNA
LONG DISTANCE TURNS OUT to be good for us. It’s devastating to be separated for days at a time from Liam and his glorious Goddamn, but the miles between Palo Alto and Los Angeles also mean we get to know each other in different ways. Long-phone-call ways, and letter-writing ways. Constant-texting ways and “send me a picture of what you’re doing right now” ways. We have dirty phone sex nearly every weeknight, and dirty real sex as many weekends as we can manage.
Like this, we thread ourselves into each other’s lives so completely that there’s no question how or whether we could fit together for more than a luxury vacation. I’ve only felt really seen by two other people—Dad and Vivi—and as the months fly by, there is a new, indelible Liam-shaped imprint in nearly every part of my life. In my confidence when I paint, and in my vision of a future where my art blooms into a full-fledged career; in my new financial security, and my dissipating worries about Dad’s health and his hospital bills. Liam’s impact is present in my mood, my sleep, my sexual satisfaction, my outlook on everything. He becomes my everything.
I finally tell him as much, on a sweltering day in August at my local tiny bakery.
“You see that right there?” I say, and nod to the pink-wallpapered wall where a framed print of one of my favorite paintings in the world hangs. “I’m going to see the real thing one day.”
He follows my gaze and then looks at me over his coffee cup. “What’s it called?”
“Dance in the Country by Renoir. It’s one of the Dance series he’d been commissioned to paint, and of the three I love it the most. It’s at the Musée d’Orsay in Paris. Have you ever been?”
“In high school.” My expression must give away exactly what I’m thinking—how outrageously fancy he continues to be—and he playfully nudges my foot with his under the table before trapping it between both of his. “I remember seeing Starry Night,” he says. “Whistler’s Mother. A lot of Monet. A lot of Van Gogh.” He studies the piece again. “What is it you love about this one?”
I turn my attention back to it. “It’s the feeling I get when I look at it. The details. Some might just see two people dancing, but… look at his hat on the floor—it’s like he was so swept up in the moment it fell to the ground, and he couldn’t be bothered to pick it up. The forgotten table, the spoon still in the cup, her fingers barely grasping her fan, and he’s holding her so close, completely unconcerned with the people behind them. See the way he’s gripping her waist?” I say, pointing. “And is he nuzzling her cheek? Smelling her hair? Whispering something naughty into her ear? Is that why she’s smiling with that look of absolute bliss on her face? She’s so in love.”
His chin rests on his hand and butterscotch eyes gaze at me instead of the print, so full of lust and devotion and wonder it feels like the room shrinks down to a satin-lined shoebox, and we’re the only two people inside. “I know how she feels.”