CHAPTER 10
Toni
Words failme as I stare up at the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum’s pink stucco walls.
Striking is the only word for it. The way the foliage takes on a jewel-like quality, the play of shadow and light, all set against the unique architecture. It feels like something outside of time, a little magical bubble of inspiration.
This was right here, a train ride away, all these weeks.
I'm too happy to let guilt take root and ruin the beauty before me. But it’s still there all the same. A small voice chastises me for not getting out and discovering this on my own.
“Not what you expected?” Cillian asks.
“Definitely not. Pink courtyard isn't the first thing that comes to mind when I hear 'we're going to a museum.'“
“Good.” He passes me a brochure, I take it, but he doesn't let go. “Important question: Are you a museum sprinter or marathoner?”
“This feels like a question you should ask before buying the ticket.”
“Too late for that. We're in this together. What's your approach?”
A part of me wants to deny him the answer just to see what he'll do. I've never considered myself a brat, but, God, something about him makes me weigh the merits of giving it a go.
My desire to see the rest of the museum proves to be stronger.
“Marathoner. Long distance.” It's why I hated going to museums with other people. They always wanted to move too fast, annoyed by my desire to linger over one piece or visit an exhibit more than once.
David and I went to the MFA in Houston exactly one time. He spent the entire visit bored and grumpy, grumbling about not 'getting it', despite insisting he wanted to come with me. It was a miserable time all around.
“Thank god.” Cillian releases his hold on the brochure. “Shall we?”
Over the next two hours, we wander the blissfully eccentric halls of the museum. Each room has a distinct theme, brimming with art and ephemera, with every detail, from the floors to the ceiling, carefully curated.
“This might be my new favorite place,” I say, giving the courtyard one final study.
“In Boston?” Cillian asks.
“Anywhere.”
“That has to be at least 500 points in my favor, right?”
I look up at him. “We never agreed on a point system.”
“How else can we ensure a fair and unbiased outcome? I got a lot on the line here.”
I lay a hand on his chest, my face a parody of sincerity. “Trust.”
He covers my hand with his, narrowing his eyes. “I don't know. You seem shifty.”
“Me?” I scratch at my nose with crossed fingers. “Never.”
Cillian's handsettles on the small of my back as we work through the crowd of late afternoon commuters. I can't tell if it's a gesture meant more for him or me, but regardless, I enjoy the warm pressure of his presence.
“What train are we taking?” I ask.
“Huh?” He tilts his head toward me, eyes not quite meeting mine. Instead, they scan the crowd with methodical precision. A muscle in his jaw ticks. Tension rolls off him like heat waves off concrete.
“Not a fan of crowds?”
