37
I finish my capstone project with just a week to spare before Parker’s final gallery show.
It feels like the end of an era—only a summer, but my time at Parker seems like it’s lasted years. California is a fever dream in a lot of ways, fuzzy as a distant mirage. I never thought I’d come back to New York and certainly not for good. But now that I’m here, I can’t imagine uprooting myself again.
“You’re staying for another semester, right?” Michal says halfway through the show. We’ve abandoned our posts by our own exhibits to wander around, wine or sparkling water in hand, pretending to look at the other displays. “You’re not leaving us after one summer.”
“I’m not staying another semester. But,” I say before Michal can interject, “I’ve signed on to the lease for my apartment. So. I’ll be around at least a little while longer. I got a job at Sotheby’s as a cataloger in their photography department.”
“Congrats! That’s a big step.”
“It’s a start, anyway.” It’s still not where I want to end up. It’s not doing photography full-time. But I need something to pay the bills, and from what I’ve read, freelancing in New York City isn’t gonna cut it. “What about you? Another semester?”
She nods. “They can’t get rid of me that easily. Besides, Ava said she’d work with me on an independent study next semester. How can I turn that down?”
“I mean, you can’t.”
“Exactly.”
Dr. Zhu appears at my shoulder at that moment, squeezing my elbow lightly. “Elisheva? There is someone looking for you at your exhibit.”
I wave my apologies to Michal and head back, weaving through the crowd to the corner of the room that has been appropriated for my own little mini-gallery. There’s a man in a clean, fitted suit there, a glass of champagne in his hand, and he smiles at me when I approach. It’s not until I’m only five feet away that I place where I’ve seen him before.
“Elisheva Cohen?” Henrik Andersson says, and when I nod, he goes on: “This is your work? I’m very impressed.”
He doesn’t seem to recognize me as the student he tried to pick up earlier this summer, but I’m counting that as a good thing. I follow his gaze to one of the sample pieces from my project, featuring a carefully cut out photograph of myself in secular clothing pasted into a blurry crowd of frum scholars and mothers crowding a Brooklyn sidewalk on Shabbos morning. I’ve stitched threads through the work, tying people together—everyone tied to someone else, except for me.
“Thank you,” I say. “It was a really fun project to put together.”
He extends a hand to shake mine. “I’m Henrik. I curate a gallery at—”
“I know who you are,” I interject before I can stop myself. And I honestly don’t care that I sound like a simpering fangirl, because that’s exactly what I am. Henrik’s gallery at PS1 is one of the best art galleries in the city, known for discovering some of the top rising talents in the visual arts world.
He laughs, so at least he’s not offended by my rudeness. “Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I’ve been following your portfolio”—What does that mean, what does that mean?—“and I’m really impressed with how you’ve evolved. I’d love to talk more about this project, if you’re interested.” He produces a business card from a slim steel wallet and passes it over. “Please give me a call.”
“Yes,” I say. “I mean…I will. Thank you. Wow.”
He grins again, showing white teeth. “Great. Well, I’ll let you get back to all your adoring fans. Looking forward to hearing from you, Elisheva.”
I watch him go with my heart still beating a thousand times a minute. It takes all my concentration not to just stand here grinning in front of my exhibit like a complete weirdo. But also like…holy shit.
I’m sweating a little bit still, so I sneak off to the washroom to splash some cold water on the back of my neck—this mascara isn’t waterproof—and give myself a little calm-the-hell-down speech.
When I return to my exhibit, Wyatt is there. He’s facing away from me, looking at the photos with his hands clasped behind his back. My gait falters for a moment. I could just…walk away. He hasn’t seen me. I could avoid him and hide over at Michal’s spot until he goes away.
But it’s not like I’ve done anything wrong. I refuse to feel embarrassed about this forever.
So I press my shoulders back, inhale, and make myself go up to him.
“Turned out pretty good, right?” I say.
He nods, still gazing at one of the photos—one I took in Crown Heights after I met Dvora, the street busy with post-Shabbos shopping, the men walking in pairs with their hatted heads tilted toward each other in deep conversation, plastic bodega bags slung over their elbows. The women with their strollers and shopping, children skipping along in their wake.
“It’s fantastic,” Wyatt says at last. “This is really good work, Ely. It’s evocative.”
Henrik Andersson thinks so too. I bite my tongue over that. The last thing I want is to seem like I’m bragging. “Thank you.”
“I saw Henrik Andersson over here earlier. He looked impressed.”
Well, so much for playing coy. A smile finds its way onto my face despite my best efforts. “He gave me his card. Looks like your cockblocking at Carolina’s show failed after all.”
The grin that splits Wyatt’s face is immediate and hopelessly earnest. “That’s great. You deserve it. So much. I’m so happy for you.”
He says it with the kind of gusto that is contagious. And if I weren’t already half-giddy from Andersson’s offer, I’m sure I would be now. “I know. I can’t believe it. I keep thinking there’s no way this is really happening. Like I’ll call him and he’ll change his mind.”
“He won’t change his mind. He has a good eye, and he knows talent when he sees it.”
Coming from Wyatt, that means a lot. And I might be a creep, but I know from reading Wyatt’s Wikipedia page that he’s been exhibited in Andersson’s gallery himself. It was one of his very first major breaks, in fact.
I’m still smiling like a freaking moron, no matter how bad I try to get myself under control.
“Don’t do that,” Wyatt says.
“Do what?”
He gestures toward my face. “You always cover your mouth when you smile.”
I’m pretty sure the observation just made me flush bright red, and I have to resist the urge to cover my mouth yet again as I force an awkward laugh. “Sorry. I guess I’m just self-conscious. I have big teeth.”
“You have what?”
“You know. Big teeth. The dentist said they were two standard deviations above normal size.”
Wyatt shakes his head very slowly. “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“No it isn’t.”
“Um, I think I would know, not you.” His lips quirk up at one corner. “Besides, I like your big teeth.”
God. Okay, now I really am turning into a tomato. Maybe instead of covering just my teeth I should cover my entire face next time.
The silence that punctuates his words is unbearable. If we were alone, I might— I don’t know what I’d do. But we aren’t alone, we’re surrounded by total strangers, and I’m still so high off getting Henrik friggin’ Andersson’s card that I’m not sure I’m even thinking straight.
“Did you put in a good word for me?” I can’t help asking. Because maybe that’s all that offer even was: the nepotism of the art industry, Wyatt’s good fortune trickling down to me, his protégé.
“Nope. I don’t do referrals, as a general rule. This was all you.”
All of a sudden there’s a wet heat prickling at my eyes. I turn away from Wyatt and pretend to be staring at my work again, although I’m sure I don’t do a very good job hiding my emotions from him. He knows me too well at this point.
His hand finds my shoulder and gives it a gentle squeeze. “Like I said, you deserve it. You’ve earned this, Ely.”
“I tried,” I say. “I tried really hard.”
“I know.” He hesitates for a moment. Then says: “Are you coming back to Parker next semester?”
I shake my head. “I got a job. So I’ll be around but not…here.”
He’s silent for long enough that I have to actually look at him again. Wyatt’s expression, for once, is unreadable. I can’t dissect a single interpretable emotion from that face.
“What?”
“Are you leaving because of me?” he asks. He keeps his voice low, as if—despite the bustle and loud murmur of the gallery crowd—he’s still worried about being overheard. “I know you were invited. Am I the reason you aren’t staying?”
I make a face. “Don’t be a narcissist. Not everything’s about you.”
“Why, then?”
Trust Wyatt to be completely undeterred by my name-calling. I blow out a heavy sigh. “I don’t know. I want to focus on my original ideas, not assignments. My scholarship money ran out, and I don’t want to pay tuition. The Sotheby’s job pays great. I just got the card of a curator at a major museum. Pick your favorite reason; there are a million of them.”
“Well,” he says, “I’m happy for you. And I think you’ll do just fine, with or without Parker. Although I’ll miss you.”
I raise my eyebrows. “You’ll miss me? I’ll still just be an L train transfer to the G, transfer to the 7, transfer to the N/W, and then a nine-minute walk away.”
Am I mistaken, or is it Wyatt’s turn to look a little pink in the cheeks? “So you’re staying in New York long term, then.”
“At least for the medium term, yeah. That’s the plan. Why? Are you entertaining some seriously inappropriate daydreams about following me back to my apartment once we’re done with this thing?”
Fuck. Shit, I need to learn to keep my mouth shut; I keep freaking catapulting myself into these awkward-ass situations—
“Pretty much,” he says.
I blink. “Oh.”
“Is that okay?”
I can’t believe that’s an actual question he’s asking. “Yes. I mean…yeah. It’s okay. But if I’m honest, I’m a little fucking surprised.”
His mouth twists into a grimace. “Yeah. That’s fair. I’ve…I’ve been an egotistical, scared-out-of-my-mind douche.”
“Yep. Go on.”
“I should have been clear with you from the beginning. I should have put you ahead of my reputation and my own…feelings about what any of this said about me. Yeah, sleeping with a student is fucked up—”
“Because you can’t unsleep with me,” I say, and he nods, then goes on:
“But it wasn’t just that. It’s more. I—I love you, Ely. Goddamn it, but I do.” He laughs, a desperate, broken sound. “I love you, and that scares the shit out of me.”
And now—now here we are, standing in this gallery, me staring at him as if I’ve never really seen him before in my life. This man, this perfect, beautiful man, and he said—
Did he really say that? Am I imagining things?
I love you.
“If I’m honest with myself”—he drags a hand back through his hair, messing it up horribly, which doesn’t at all fit with the cool-guy perfectly coiffed look he’s affected for this show—“I’ve always tried to control everything. After I got clean, especially. I didn’t want to ruin anything. I worked so fucking hard to be here, and…And you too, you worked so hard to be here. I was terrified of messing it up. For either one of us.”
I shouldn’t trust him.
But I do, as it turns out. Possibly because he’s standing there fumbling around like a dumb sloth, and right now, I love that look for him. He should try groveling more often.
I can’t figure out what to say, although Wyatt is looking more and more distressed. I mean, he should. But enough is enough, and I’m starting to feel kind of bad for the man.
Should I say, I love you too? My mouth feels dry, like my tongue won’t work properly. Have I waited too long now? Is it too late?
“Listen,” he says after it’s clear that my fumbling for a response is going nowhere. “I…I’ve got something for you. I hope it’s not weird. I was planning to give it to you anyway, but I didn’t get around to it, and…and regardless of how you feel about me—about us—I still hope you’ll keep it.”
He pulls his backpack off his shoulder and digs around inside for a sec, then emerges with a small cardboard box tied with a somewhat-wilted ribbon.
I don’t know what to do besides take the box. I tug at one end of the ribbon until the bow unravels. And when I open it—
“Oh my god. Is this—”
“It’s a Leica range finder. Thirty-five millimeter. Hannah Wilke shot in thirty-five millimeter a lot. But you can’t find thirty-five millimeter anymore, and this, I thought you might—”
“Wyatt, this thing costs almost six thousand dollars!”
He looks a little bit like he wants to die on the spot. “I didn’t pay for it,” he says quickly. “I mean, I did. But it was a while ago. This was the first expensive camera I ever got myself. I thought maybe you could use it better than I can now. Or at least, I’d love to see what you do with it.”
I’m staring at him with my mouth hanging open. A friggin’ Leica. A friggin’, frick-frick Leica. His Leica. The one he shot Cloudburst on. And he wants to see what I make with it. He wants me to make art with his Leica.
“Wyatt—”
“There’s more,” he says. At this point he’s clearly just rushing to get it all out before I can tell him to fuck off again. “Look.”
I lift the camera up and there it is—a roll of thirty-five-millimeter film. Still good.
“I only had the one roll left,” he says apologetically, “but…”
“You didn’t need to do this,” I breathe at last.
He messes up his hair even worse this time. I really, really want to reach up and fix it for him. To slide my fingers into those chestnut waves and—
“I’m sorry; I know. I’m not trying to, like— This isn’t a bribe. I really did plan to give it to you anyway.”
This man. This man. This incredible, fantastic, gorgeous man.
I can’t help smiling now, the expression creeping across my face despite my best efforts. Wyatt’s clutching his backpack in both hands now, holding on for dear life.
“Okay,” I say. “That’s fine. I’ll accept your apology, pending future discussions.”
Wyatt still looks so pitifully remorseful, all cow eyes again—what is it with this man and the bovine woe? I stop him before he can utter another heartbreaking apology.
“And,” I say, “I meant to say it. I want to say it, and I want—I want you to know how much this means to me. I love you too, Wyatt. More than anything.”
Wyatt’s shock is so artistically satisfying, it could be a gallery show on its own. Maybe my next collection will be called Meditations on a Fish Mouth.
“Really?” he says at last. His cheeks are flushed. I wonder if his heart is pounding as fast as mine is. I’m clutching the Leica like someone might swoop down and steal it, but I wish I were clutching him instead. I wish I could bury my face against his strong chest and breathe in the scent of him as his arms curl around me and hold me tight.
“Really. So much.” I take a breath and then another one, a steadying one. “But it’s kind of weird having this conversation right now, with the whole…” I gesture, indicating the entire gallery, the students and critics milling about.
He laughs, his shoulders finally settling down to their usual position. “Yeah. Sorry. I probably could have chosen a better location for my grand declaration of love.”
“Just a tiny, tiny bit. But since we already fucked that part up,” I say, “we should go back to your apartment. And then we should have sex. Lots of sex. As soon as possible. In fact, can we get out of here right now?”
And there—that’s the suave fucker I met at Revel. He quirks up a corner of his lips. “I think we have a solid fifteen minutes before the crowd starts to dwindle. But at that point…absolutely, we can make our daring escape.”
He hesitates a second, that vulnerability creeping back in. “Ely, I really do…I care about you. More than you can imagine. You mean the world to me, and I almost lost you. I never want to make that mistake again. I promise you I won’t.”
He takes a half step closer to me, then another. And then he slides his hand along my cheek and he kisses me—right there, in front of everyone.
I almost drop the Leica, but Wyatt—thank god—is quick enough to slide his hand between us and cup it beneath mine, holding the precious camera bracketed between our bodies as his other hand slips around the small of my back and pulls my hips in toward him.
When the kiss breaks, I’m off-balance, giddy and effervescent, like my whole body is filled with Wyatt’s damn LaCroix.
“I can’t believe you,” I say. “You just did that. In public. At a fancy art show.”
“I did,” he says.
“Hello to you too, Professor.”
He lets out a laugh, low and husky. The thrill that slithers down from my stomach to my thighs at that is nearly enough to make me slip with the camera all over again.
Those next fifteen minutes crawl by, of course. I manage to fumble my way through small talk with the occasional guest or professor, every conversation made about fifty times more interminable by the way I can’t stop sensing Wyatt’s presence. It’s as if some primal part of me knows exactly where he is in the room at any given point in time.
Terrible move, Ely, I want to tell myself.
But terrible move or not, I trust him. And I wouldn’t exactly say I’m a trusting-easily kind of person, so I feel like that has to say something. Right?
Either way, things have changed now. We’re just two people with too much in common, two people who really want to have sex with each other.
Who—god help me—love each other.
Your move, Wyatt Cole.