I don’t mind all that much. I like life, like the plans and goals I had before everything was derailed. But it doesn’t feel like they’re gone anymore.
It feels more like I took a roundabout path.
I wake up on Saturday morning to find Aiden awake, propped up against the pillows. He looks down at me as I blink up at him, his eyes soft.
“I’m taking you somewhere today,” he tells me, his voice still rough from sleep.
“Okay.”
After we both shower and dress and grab a quick bite to eat, he leads me out to the car with a hand at my lower back. We drive through the streets of Boston until we reach a museum.
A thrill of excitement overcomes me, met by a soft ache in my heart. He brought me here because he knows I want to be a curator. He must have known about this place and wanted to share it with me.
It feels like when I was in college, walking through art museums alone, imagining myself there. Somehow, it’s more special now. It feels closer.
“Oh, god,” I say as we walk in. It’s gorgeous.
The entry has two curving staircases on either side, white stone and gold details. There are pale, cream colored drapes hanging over the high doorways, announcing a new exhibit.
Aiden stops at the coffee shop on the bottom floor, and we walk with our drinks through the halls. I can’t stop looking at everything. It’s like eye candy to me.
“This one is pre-Raphaelite,” I say. We’re standing in front of a painting with pink flowers, the color soft. There are people in the image, one nearly buried in flowers. “Alma-Tadema. When he was a student, they told him he was terrible at rendering marble. So, he spent his career becoming good at it. He became known for how well he could paint marble.”
We keep winding through the halls. I talk about pieces I recognize and Aiden listens intently, his hand on the small of my back, his eyes roving over the art we stop in front of.
I tell him about the marble statues and the way they were repaired. I tell him about Waterhouse and symbolism, about the pigments used in a specific landscape and the way the study for another painting was almost as famous as the finished piece.
This is like a home to me, like a church. It’s where everything I love is, one place where the world is quiet and perfect and full of history. Full of beauty.
It’s more than just beauty, though. It’s the stories. I know about the artists, their loves, their struggles. It makes the art special.
Aiden is listening to me go on and on, and I can’t help but laugh.
“I never knew you loved art so much,” I say, pausing to take a sip of my cold coffee.
He tilts his head. “I don’t know much about it, actually. But I do love hearing you talk about it.”
I pause, surprised. I don’t know what to say. My mouth moves, but nothing comes out. What do I say? How do I even respond to that?
Aiden nods to himself, almost not watching me.
“I love how much you know. How excited you get.”
Suddenly, I remember the ballet. I remember the way I laughed about the O’Reilly brothers going in the first place. I remember feeling guilty for being so judgmental.
But I think I missed the point.
It’s not that they all love ballet, or that Aiden loves art. It’s that Aiden and his family are so dedicated to the people they love. They went because they love Violet, because they wanted to support her.
Aiden is here for me. Because I love art.
And he loves me.
We haven’t said that word yet. It hovers on the tip of my tongue, full of potential. I know it’s backward to marry before sayingI love you, know it would make some of my friends in college gasp. I’ve never been someone to get carried away with a man, carried away at all. It’s not me.
But our relationship has never been conventional. This isn’t the strangest thing about us.
So maybe it’s fine.
