He looked at her with that familiar amusement—like he couldn’t believe she was real. “You are the most honest liar I’ve ever met.”
She leaned over to boop his nose with her finger. “You’re not allowed to tell anyone. That’s classified intel.”
He reached out and tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear. “Who would I tell?”
He kissed her—lightly, like a promise—and she let herself melt into it.
She loved the city. But when it was too fast and sharp around the edges, her husband was her special place in the noise, her still point. Even when she felt small and unsure in the shadow of tall buildings and busy streets, she always felt like she belonged here. With him.
Fiona felt soout of place.
The gallery echoed with voices as the rest of the crowd networked. She stood awkwardly near a painting that looked like something one of her students might’ve made—if only the school could afford canvases.
Her outfit—the one that had looked so polished in her bedroom mirror—now seemed frumpy and obvious next to the architectural black ensembles surrounding her. The women here moved with an effortless confidence she'd never mastered.
Fiona tugged at her dress, hyperaware of how it sat on her—too tight in some places, loose in others. She felt like a middle schooler who'd raided her mother's closet—playing dress-up in a world that required sophistication.
Even her shoes felt wrong now, sensible flats among stilettos. She felt like the girl from the small town trying to pass in the big city, and it showed in every awkward gesture, every uncertain smile, every moment she opened her mouth and revealed just how little she belonged.
"The brushwork is so deliberately naive," a woman with geometric earrings was saying to the small cluster nearby. "It's almost aggressive in its refusal to engage with post-conceptual frameworks."
Fiona had no idea what post-conceptual meant. She wondered if it was like pre-algebra.
A couple nearby was posing for photos, the man dutifully snapping shots of his girlfriend against the white gallery wall. She adjusted her pose, hand on her hip, chin tilted just so.
Dean appeared at her elbow with fresh drinks, looking effortlessly at home in his charcoal suit. He leaned toward Fiona. “I’m glad that’s not me.” He handed her her drink. “I love you, but there’s a limit.”
Fiona took a large sip.
"How are you holding up?" he murmured, close to her ear.
"Great," she said, too quickly. "I love... art."
He smiled at her, soft and private, but before he could respond, a tall man with silver hair approached—someone Dean had pointed out to her earlier as a senior partner at his agency.
"Dean, there you are. And this must be the wife. You’re a teacher, I believe?”
"That's right.” She felt a blush stain her cheeks. Dean must talk about her at work. The realization wrapped around her like a warm embrace.
"How refreshing. We don't get many educators in our circle." He said it like she was an exotic bird that had wandered into the wrong habitat. "And what do you make of the artist’s latest work?"
Fiona glanced at the painting behind them. "It's... very blue," she said.
The man's smile became sharper. "Yes. The cerulean palette is quite striking."
Cerulean.Of course it wasn't just blue. It was cerulean.
“What Fiona means," Dean injected smoothly, "is that the monochromatic scheme creates an emotional intensity that's almost overwhelming."
The man turned his attention toward Dean. "Exactly. The visceral response is immediate."
Fiona felt heat creep up her neck as they talked.
"If you'll excuse me," she said, "I'm going to get some air."
She made her way through the crowd, past conversations about emerging markets and art fairs in Basel, past women who looked like they'd stepped out of magazines and men who gestured with their wine glasses like conductors.
The bathroom was mercifully quiet.
