A Five-Minute Life

“Are you okay?” she asked. “You look sad.”

“I’m good,” I said.

The waiter came by and dropped the check.

Thea made a grab for it, but I was faster. “I got it.”

“Jimmy—”

“I got it, Thea.” I forced a smile to soften the harsh tone. “Come on. Let’s get you to that museum.”

Chapter 30

Thea

Jimmy and I walked through Central Park, from the Upper West side to the Upper East Side, under a brilliant sun and thick humidity. The city still smelled of the rain that came through last night, but the sky was a perfect blue, empty of clouds

“It’s beautiful,” I said as we strolled along a path. “I love this piece of the green in the midst of all the concrete and steel.”

Jimmy made a sound in his chest but said nothing else. He’d snapped at me pretty hard over the check in the restaurant, and now a hard glint was in his dark eyes, a thousand unspoken thoughts lurking behind them.

All morning, I talked about myself and my past. Telling him was remembering and remembering felt like a gift I got to open every second.

But maybe Jim wanted—or needed—to talk about his own childhood. I could hardly fathom eighteen years in the foster care system with no good memories to show for it.

Remembering might not be such a gift for him.

Still, Mom and Dad always said talking about the bad stuff was a way of taking away some of its power.

“Hey,” I said, slipping my hand into his and giving it a squeeze. “You okay?”

“Sure.” He squeezed back. “Tired, maybe.” He gave me a knowing look. “Not much sleep last night.”

“Spoiler alert: you’re not going to get much sleep tonight either.”

He let out a laugh that softened the hard edges of his features.

He’s okay. We’re okay and we’re in New York. Not everything is everything.

As we strolled the museum galleries, my art school education came back to me, along with my love of painting. We stood in front of Vermeer’s Young Woman with a Water Pitcher, and I stared in awe at its beauty.

“It’s the sunlight,” I said. “See how he floods the room with it? How it glints on the pitcher and the glass in the window. All that blue and gold…” I shook my head, drinking it in. “It’s such a simple moment, it becomes almost spiritual. Something divine about that young woman, in her home, opening a window to let the morning in.”

I filled my eyes with the painting until I felt Jimmy’s on me, a strange, nostalgic expression on his face.

“What is it?” I asked.

“I was remembering our first conversation,” he said. “Standing in front of the painting at Blue Ridge. You described how the light touched the fruit.”

“I remember.”

“Even then?”

He nodded. “But it didn’t last. That perfect moment.”

“Not then,” I said. “But I’m here now.”

His eyes took me in the way I’d gazed at the Vermeer, the strange nostalgia returning. He nodded and moved on to the next painting.