by Jolie Day
I refused his offer to call in a moving company, and, instead lugged my few boxes of memorabilia and pieces of cheap Ikea furniture into the elevator and across his living room floor myself. It felt important to me to prove that I was perfectly capable of doing things myself, even if he’d already helped me out so much. Ethan moved the heavier items, but I shooed him away when he reached for the boxes that were light enough for me to carry myself. He didn’t say much, outside of the occasional witty quips or polite suggestions, and this, I would come to find, was indicative of his personality as a roommate in general.
And he was private, incredibly so. He made dodging any attempts I made at learning more about his line of work into an Olympic sport, but he always managed to do it with charisma and grace. He often disappeared for long work meetings that stretched well into the evening, sometimes not waking up the next day to fix his wheat bread and poached eggs until well past ten.
I tried making cutesy jabs about his active nightlife, but he never rose to the bait. He would just say he’d been at work, and that work was going well, and would I please pass him the soy creamer. Within two days of my moving in, he was off on one of his overnight business trips, leaving me to tend to the house and wonder what kind of business he had waiting for him in Berlin.
I thought of him as the Fort Knox of men: well arranged, high maintenance, and absolutely impervious to questioning. His schedule was so sporadic and demanding that I often felt like I lived alone. I would pass the days by myself in the house before wandering into the kitchen to find him stirring cream into a simmering alfredo sauce with his sexy-as-sin tattoos and domestic skills on full display. On the few occasions he was around, Ethan was well-mannered to a fault, generous, pleasant to talk to, and even more pleasant to look at. It almost felt like home, even if I hadn’t had much time to make my room very homey in the apartment.
I dumped my stuff in some out-of-the-way corners, tucked my clothes into the dresser, taped up some pictures of my college friends on my mirror, and called it good. I wasn’t home often enough to warrant decorating, since I was picking up as many shifts at the café as my manager would allow. The Petrie Court was one of the busiest eateries in the Metropolitan Museum, and I spent long hours on my feet serving lattes to International businessmen and carrying full plates of fish and chips to tired mothers corralling their excitable children. It wasn’t glamorous, and it wasn’t what I’d gotten my degree in Art History to do, but it kept me close to the artifacts, and that was at least a step in the right direction.
As the heat of spring swelled, so did the crowds, and soon I was swimming in more college kids with cameras, young lovers on honeymoons, and inquisitive doctoral students than I could handle. I spent my days bustling from table to table, sweating beneath my apron and telling people where the outlets were for their chargers so many times that I wanted to write it, along with the wi-fi password on my forehead in a sharpie. But if the option was between a café in the Metropolitan or an overcrowded Starbucks in lower Manhattan, I wasn’t about to start complaining. This paid the bills while I kept my ears to the ground for a curator job or an internship or an auction house… anything to get me up close and personal with the art I was trained to preserve and educate others about.
One Wednesday when the customers were being particularly demanding, and my boss had already snapped at me twice for not moving quickly enough, I was tapped on the shoulder while wiping down one of our small tables.
“Excuse me, Miss? Do you have any specials today?”
I bristled. My fuse was only a few inches long that day, and I couldn’t take being badgered by some entitled tourist who didn’t have the decency to take a seat before accosting me about lunchtime discounts. I swiveled to icily inform the customer that I would wait on him just as soon as I finished clearing this table, but the words died in my throat when I found myself looking into amused hazel eyes.
“Ethan!”
He leaned his hip against one of the tables and cast his eyes around the café as though appraising its value.
“So, this is where you spend all your time.”
“That’s right,” I huffed. “At work. I’m working, Ethan, just like you’re supposed to be. Did you just come over here to mess with me?”
“Of course not,” he said. “And you shouldn’t assume such nasty things about paying customers. I could be in the market for a good cappuccino, or an overpriced Caprese sandwich.”
“Well, I’m sure someone will be along to help you in no time. I’m sorry, but I can’t talk right now. It’s been a crazy day here, and my boss has it in for me today.”
Ethan’s eyes narrowed slightly, and I couldn’t tell if he was irritated with me for rebuffing him or concerned that I was working too hard. Both seemed to be in his ballpark.
“You’re always working.”
I raised a brow at that. “Yes, well, so are you.”
“Well… I would expect you to have better personal boundaries than me. I work too much because I like to work—everyone knows that.”
“And I’ve always had trouble turning down extra hours—everyone knows that, too.”
Ethan shook his head and smiled at me. I knew if my boss looked over to find me chatting away with a tall, handsome stranger while customers waited at their tables for their check, I would be getting an earful. But Ethan had a way of making the world around me fall away, regardless of the demands my other responsibilities had before he’d arrived. It was one of his “magical” powers that hadn’t worn off after I’d grown up and gotten a grip on my hormonal teenage heart.
His eyes roamed over my body, taking a careful survey from head to toe, and I felt my blood quicken, rushing through my veins. If he could do all that with just a look, I could only imagine what his hands were capable of. Snap out of it!
“Take a walk with me,” Ethan said.
I laughed so suddenly, I nearly choked. “What? No way. Did you hear me? Look around… we’re slammed.”
“I’m sure your boss will understand.”
I crossed my arms and gave him a challenging look. “Will she? She’s right over there by the espresso machine. Try your luck with her, see how far you get.”
I thought the fact that I was being hyperbolic was obvious, but to my amazement and dismay, Ethan turned on his heel and began to make his way across the café to my supervisor. I lunged after him, dead set on stopping him before he could open his mouth and get me fired, but an elderly gentleman stopped me with a touch on my elbow and a request for two more sugars for his tea, please. I fumbled for the sugars in my apron and managed a meager “you’re welcome,” but as soon as I turned my attention back to Ethan, the damage was already done. He was leaning across the counter to chat up my boss, speaking in hushed tones.
My entire professional life flashed before my eyes. My career was over before it even began and it ended here, with me standing in a deafening marble hall serving grilled cheese sandwiches in an itchy apron.
My supervisor scowled at Ethan and opened her mouth to destroy him. But then Ethan pulled out his business card, and before she could say anything, he’d slid it across the counter to her and nodded at it pointedly. She picked up the card, blanched, and then swallowed. To my astonishment, the next expression to cross her face was one of blissed-out customer service friendliness. She made an apologetic gesture with her hands before nodding with a gracious stare, and Ethan turned back to face me with a smug air.
I was frozen to the spot, wringing my apron between my hands. What on earth had happened over there?
“Did you put some kind of ‘Ethan’ spell on her?” I hissed when he approached again.
He began to meander away from the café with his self-assured gait, the one he used when he knew I would be close behind despite my protests. I muttered a curse under my breath, then slipped out of my apron and balled it up. I tossed it behind the counter before scuttling after Ethan into one of the grand halls of the Metropolitan Museum.
“You do
n’t need magic when you have good manners and a famous name,” Ethan said in a gentle tone, tilting his head to admire a statue of a nude boy throwing a discus.
I slowed my step as I caught up with him, falling into a relaxed stroll at his side. I was sure to the dozens of other patrons wandering the Greco-Roman statue gallery, we looked like a pair of cultured young lovers, discussing the artwork in intimate voices. They would be wrong, of course, or at least in my mind, they would be. Ethan hadn’t exactly specified that his invitation to “take a walk” was a date, and really, it had no business being one. We were just old friends who shared an apartment.
And who shared a kiss, I couldn’t help but add in my head. Letting go of that night in Ethan’s Camry had proved more difficult than I had anticipated.
“And what makes you so famous?” I asked, taking a moment to marvel at a particularly adept Rodin despite myself.
All of my senses were screaming at me to head right back to the café, to apologize profusely to my boss, and get back to work. But I spent so much time working in the Met that I hardly ever took a few minutes for myself to enjoy it, and I found I liked keeping pace with Ethan’s easy meander in the vaulted halls.
“Sponsorship,” he said in a casual tone, gently touching my elbow to indicate that he wished to turn right, not left, at the restored tiled fountain from Pompeii. The touch sent a little jolt of electricity up my arm.
I turned my head to face him, surprised. “You donate to the Met?”
“Every year.”
I raised a brow. “I didn’t take you for a patron of the arts.”
“The Metropolitan is one of New York’s most iconic treasures, and I like helping to preserve that. Giving back is important. Besides, the perks are good.”
“Oh, yeah? Perks like what?”
He gave me a half-smile with a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Annual passes, for one thing. First dibs on tickets to special events, invitations to exclusive showings. And the clout to wiggle my roommate out of a heinous afternoon shift for a nice walk around the premises.”
I had to admit, I didn’t like the way “roommate” sounded coming out of his mouth. It sounded too congenial and too clinical all at once. “Friend” wouldn’t have been much better, sterile sounding as it was, but I couldn’t put my finger on what would be more appropriate.
“And exactly how much money does it take to earn that kind of clout?”
Ethan observed the room with a casual glance, gauging who was within earshot. He didn’t seem to mind flaunting his wealth by his choice of clothes or electronic devices, and in that way, he was a stereotypical “new money” finance guy. But apparently, frank discussion of actual figures in the open air seemed a little crass to him, like discussing sex or politics at the dinner table.
Ethan leaned down and murmured a number in my ear. His breath and the stubble along his jaw glided across my skin for an instant, and I suppressed a shudder. Whether it was from his closeness or the astronomical figure, I couldn’t tell. When he pulled away, I blinked at him with a dumb expression.
“Annually?”
“Monthly,” he said, savoring the word.
I let out a consternated huff. Ethan had always had a weakness for showing off, even back in the days where he hardly had two pennies to rub together, but I had a suspicion he took it to the next level around me.
I glanced toward him. “So, you just felt like being generous and taking mercy on a lowly barista?”
“Something like that, yes.” Ethan fiddled with one of his monogrammed cufflinks, and if I didn’t know better, I would have guessed he was feeling nervous.
“We work two different schedules, and don’t often have the opportunity to just catch up and talk. I thought it might be nice. Anyway, I was in the area. You’re free to head back to work if you like.”
My eyes widened at the thought of it. “No, work is the last place I want to be right now, so thanks for saving me. And yeah… I guess we haven’t really talked all that much since I moved in a few weeks ago. Life gets in the way.”
Ethan swept a hand toward the many possible doors for us to pass through on our exploration of beauties: ancient, antiquated, and vintage.
“Well, your boss gave you half an hour to take a turn around the premises with me under the assumption that you’d be giving me a proper tour of the facilities I’ve been paying so handsomely for. So, lead the way, Miss Tour Guide.”
Hearing him call me that warmed my heart, even if I felt a little stupid for falling for it. It was a modest aspiration by most people’s standards, but I’d wanted to be a tour guide in a museum since I was a little girl. I used to practice on all of my classmates when we’d gone on field trips to look at dinosaur bones or modern art, so much so, that they handed over dollar bills and juicy fruit gum just to get me to shut up.
He gave me an appraising look. “You’re really serious about this?”
“Serious as a heart attack. I’ve been to the Met a dozen times, but always as an investor, never as an art lover. I thought it might be nice to borrow your specialist’s eyes for the afternoon.”
I couldn’t help the smile that spread across my face. Making a snap decision, I began to stride through one of the doorways as though my future was on the other side, and I was walking to embrace it with open arms.
“Well, in that case, we’ll start with the French Impressionists. Try to keep up. There’ll be a quiz at the end of class.”
7
Ethan
Maya was an exposé of life in the secure embrace of the Met, a burning comet, a bold north star. I knew I sounded corny, even to myself. But, I’d never seen her so sure of herself, so… at ease. Taking a long lunch and hitting up the Met had definitely been a good idea, even if I had been ten blocks away when the thought struck me to drop in on Maya at work. I couldn’t help that she’d piqued my curiosity, and I wanted to see what it was exactly that had her out of the house before most any humans’ waking hours. It wasn’t glamorous, but it proved she was a hard worker, and I was overjoyed to be able to give her the chance to show off her impressive wealth of historical knowledge.
“Monet and Renoir were contemporaries.” She was saying, admiring a watery seascape, painted in bold strokes, with her huge dark eyes. “They oftentimes painted the same scenes together out in the landscape. When Monet died, his personal art collection included many beautiful paintings by Renoir, given as gifts.”
“Amazing,” I murmured, never taking my eyes off Maya and her curves. I was trying to pay attention to the art, but it was hard, as were other things, just thinking of how she would feel... I had to stop myself.
She was radiant like this, and I was sure that the magnetism of her smile was enough to power a small city. Obviously, this was her calling, her passion. The thought of watching her serving coffee to tourists every day almost hurt after seeing her in her element.
I knew I shouldn’t get involved. Maya and I were in different seasons of life. She was younger than me by a couple years and still figuring things out and most importantly, Rick’s sheltered little sister. I should have been able to keep from interfering in her life back when she was in high school, but now I didn’t have the momentary rush of twenty-year-old hormones to blame for my indiscretions. I’d grown up into a man well known for his self-possession and laser-sharp focus on his work. So why did Maya have me skipping out on a productive working lunch to moon over paintings at the Met? It didn’t make sense.
Maya sighed in adoration at the sight of her favorite Degas, a ballet scene, and sense suddenly mattered a whole lot less to me in the grand scheme of things.
“Do you have a favorite artist?”
She turned to me with a huge smile, that gorgeous smile I couldn’t seem to get enough of. I felt myself wanting to make her smile more often. “Oh, I have loads of them. I do love Degas. Monet, too, but also Sorolla, from the Spanish school, and Gaugin and O’Keefe. Hopper had his moments as well.”
“If I didn’t know
better, I would think you were raised here,” I said with a laugh. “Is there anything about this place you don’t know?”
“Oh, we’ve barely scratched the surface! I still don’t think I’ve seen the entirety of this place. But there are a couple of wings I spent a lot of time in during college. I would come here when I was bored or having a bad day. The donation-only admission fee makes this a very popular spot with broke college students.”
“I’ll bet,” I said, strolling along beside her as we made our way through the gallery. Her thirty-minute break would be over soon, but I didn’t want to remind her of that and shake her out of her reverie. I didn’t think I’d ever seen her look so at peace, happy. Every time I’d caught a glimpse of her in the apartment, she was either scowling into a recipe book or highlighting her work schedule in her day planner with a look of anxiety. I’d never met anyone who managed to look so serious all the time.
I couldn’t take my eyes off of her. Seeing this side of Maya… I wanted to learn more. “Have you ever been able to attend any of the special events?”
“Occasionally I got lucky enough to catch a touring exhibit. I saw the terracotta warriors when they were in town, and the Heavenly Bodies exhibit, with all the Catholic-inspired fashion pieces. It was amazing. My friends and I watched the red carpet for the Gala together that year in our dorm room.”
“I remember that,” I said, the memory of that hectic night flashing in a swirl of silk and the clink of champagne glasses. “Rihanna wore that crystal-covered dress and some kind of cardinal’s hat.”