“Have you been here long?” I asked matter-of-factly.
“About an hour.”
I winced. “Sorry. My bus was late. Didn’t you get my texts?”
“I did.” He scratched at the stubble along his jaw, drawing attention to his shirtsleeves. They’d been folded up to reveal the network of veins that snaked his arms like tributaries. I used to trace those veins with magic marker, all the way up to his shoulders, transforming his arm into a map of the Nile River.
“I decided to walk around in case you’d already come in,” I said.
“I know. I watched you buy your ticket.”
I leaned back to look at his face. “That was like, an hour ago.”
He shrugged one shoulder. “I wanted to look at you.”
My cheeks burned. As a rich and famous portrait artist, Mason had turned people-watching into a vocation. He used to draw me all the time when I was little, but just then I found his gaze unnerving, like the phantom sensation of having to pee before a performance. His scrutiny pared at my composure, and I was afraid he’d scrape away the layers only to be disappointed by what he found inside.
“See anything interesting?” I asked, keeping my tone light.
Mason cocked his head to study me. He seemed to be weighing his words. “Your hair’s a lot darker than I remember. And you’re taller, but that makes sense, considering how long it’s been.”
I wanted to ask him why it’d been so long. But he looked so pleased to see me, I didn’t want to ruin the mood. I was already predicting an awkward conversation once I revealed my true motivations for this visit.
Mason and my mom had never married, but she’d given me his last name: Black. I have vague memories of him living with us when I was little, before the two of them broke up. Mason moved into his own apartment, and I spent nearly every weekend at his place, until the day he left. If I hadn’t stumbled across a number in my mom’s contacts, marked only with the letters MB, and sent a quick text from my own phone after downing one too many post-graduation tequila shots, he’d still be nothing but a memory.
“Your hair used to cover your ears,” I said, still at a loss for any topic of substance. “It looks good short.”
His mouth quirked up at the corners.
“So do you, Jett.”
He nudged my arm and then waited, probably to see if I’d nudge him back. If I did, it would mean he could touch me.
I held my breath and nudged him.
Mason pulled me into a side hug, his big hand gently squeezing my shoulder. Pressed so close together, I couldn’t help feeling comforted by his sturdiness and the pleasing scent of his clothes.
Over the next few hours we made our way through the American galleries, tethered it seemed by an invisible thread. I kept close, lured by the thrill of simply basking in his presence. Every now and then, he would pause to point out something about composition, or to shake the hand of yet another fan who recognized him as the Mason Black.
Rather than dine at one of the museum restaurants, Mason insisted I let him take me to his favorite Italian place with the good breadsticks. I could tell he was keeping a leisurely pace for my benefit, letting me soak in the sights and sounds and smells of the city. It’d been years since I’d visited Manhattan, and I missed it. Everything about it. The rush and the thrum and the weight of it.
The host at the restaurant recognized Mason and seated us at once. A few of the patrons eyed us curiously. I found the attention unnerving, but Mason appeared used to it. Not long ago, Art in America had dubbed him The Modern-day Egon Schiele for his contour line drawings of sex workers with their children. But the work that’d made him super famous was a series of frankly intimate paintings titled The Family in Repose: a father, mother, and their twin sons, cooking breakfast, clipping toenails, checking email, changing their socks. He’d lived with the family for two years, quietly observing.
Two years invested in a family that wasn’t his own.
The host seated us at a quiet table in the back corner, away from prying eyes. Still, even the waiter seemed mildly starstruck as he took our orders. I couldn’t blame him. When Mason’s work started gaining traction a few years after he disappeared, I became obsessed. In place of concert posters on my walls, I had prints of Mason’s paintings. Surrounding myself with his art allowed me to pretend he was still part of my life.
I followed his career with the zeal of a fangirl lusting after her favorite pop star. It was his genius that inspired me to pick up a paintbrush. As it turned out, I, too, had a knack for visual art—a knack that turned into a passion that led to an acceptance into New York University’s studio art program.
Mason had been quick to jump on my thinly-veiled request for a trip into the city, going so far as to invite me to spend the summer painting in his private studio—an opportunity of a lifetime for any wannabe professional artist, but an even more monumental break for me. It was my chance to reconnect with the man whose love of art had rooted itself in me from the very beginning.
However, most importantly, it was my chance to get some answers about why he’d deceived me.
By the time our food arrived, piled high and piping hot, I was ravenous. He’d been right about the breadsticks. Over the next hour, we ate and talked about his works in progress and my plans for college. As eager as I was to confront him, I decided not to push for answers just yet. Whether it was pent-up resentment or the mystery surrounding Mason that made him seem so alluring, all I knew was that being around him made me feel needy in a way I wasn’t used to.
“You still hate peas,” he said, looking amused. I’d forgotten to ask for no peas in my gnocchi, and I was avoiding his gaze by pushing the little green globes around my plate. “Your mother always hated them, too.”
“I know,” I said. I suspected that was the reason she never forced me to eat them.