“Please. Good thing I don’t have to drive,” he said as I refilled his glass.
“We only have to stumble down the hallway,” Rory said with a grin.
“How’s April doing?” I asked, trying to change the topic away from Ryder by asking about Tate’s wife, who was pregnant with her third child. She already had two little girls and the new baby was somewhat of a surprise. I couldn’t even imagine having three kids under the age of five. I’d probably kill myself. I’d met her little girls, Gracie and Fiona, once and that was enough. I’d never fantasized about having kids. They seemed like way too much work and money for very little reward. And what if your kid turned out to be a serial killer? I’d like to avoid that if I could.
“She’s good. They’re finding out what it’s going to be soon. I know Tate is pulling for a boy, but April thinks it’s another girl.” Three girls, all two years apart in age. That was going to be so much fun when they were teenagers. Talk about hell.
I shuddered at the thought and Rory laughed.
“Don’t worry. I’m sure you won’t be forced to babysit.”
I could barely handle those kids with their parents standing a few feet away. One of them had nearly ripped my earring out of my ear. “Thank God for that,” I said, and Lucah smiled.
The dishes were put in the dishwasher, and then Lucah and Rory retreated to their apartment.
Once I was alone, I went to my closet and tried to pick out an outfit for the art show. It wasn’t a date, but I still wanted to look nice. I always wanted to look nice. I never left the house unless I was dressed to impress. Not even if I felt like shit.
I was going for casual. I didn’t want him to think I’d tried too hard with my outfit. I usually wore dresses, but decided to go with jeans instead. Nothing said casual like jeans. I had a new pair I’d made not that long ago that hadn’t made it out of my house yet. I pulled out some cute tops to pair with them and then grabbed some short boots. Simple enough. It was chilly enough to need a sweater, so I found a bulky one that definitely said casual. I laid everything out and realized it was too casual. I looked like I was just lounging around the house. An art gallery opening was a nice affair.
“Shit,” I said, putting the clothes away again. This was going to require some more thought.
Why was it so easy to dress someone else, but when I tried to dress myself I had a hard time? What was that saying about those who can, do, and those who can’t, teach? I had that.
I went to take a shower and caught sight of my roots in the mirror. My hair was naturally a dull brown, but I dyed it black, and I was definitely overdue. Deciding it was a good way to spend the rest of my evening, I got out the dye supplies and an old towel, and got to work. I also trimmed my own hair. It was just easier that way. Then I didn’t have to worry about a stylist fucking it up. I only had myself to blame if something went wrong.
I told myself I wasn’t fixing my hair for Ryder. I was doing it for me. Because of my roots. Not for him.
I was excellent at lying to myself.
Eight
By the time Friday night rolled around, I felt like I was losing my mind. I’d gone through five outfit changes and finally settled on what I would have worn if this had been a date. A floor-length white dress that was Grecian-inspired and had black beading around the top which accentuated my chest. I paired it with black satin heels and added a black sparkly flower that held up part of my hair.
I had to cover it up with a wool coat, but I knew I’d still get the effect when I took the coat off. Ryder was waiting outside for me, wearing a flannel coat, hands in his pockets. It was dark, but I’d know him anywhere.
I walked up slowly, and when he spotted me he smiled.
“Hey,” he said. Oh shit, it was awkward already.
“Hey,” I replied, and we stared at each other for a second. I might have gone a bit too overboard on the makeup, because he was definitely staring a lot at my face.
He blinked a few times. “So, shall we?” he asked.
The building was made of old bricks and very unassuming on the outside, but it was lit well from within, and had a giant window that looked out on the street. Inside, various people milled around. I saw some with champagne flutes. Good, there would be booze.
“Sure,” I said, and he held the door open for me.
The gallery itself was perfect for displaying the art, with blond hardwood floors, white walls, and simple lighting.
The art was . . . crazy. Chaotic. Bright.
“Wow,” I said, looking at a piece near the front that was a sculpture made out of bicycle parts. It was so large you could walk under and around it to see it from different angles.
A man wearing a suit and carrying a tray offered us champagne, and I had to fight the urge to double fist, but I took just one glass.
“What do you think?” Ryder asked as we walked by a giant piece that, on closer inspection, seemed to be made from pages of magazines. Some of them were the kind with nudity. They were slapped on a canvas in a haphazard way. On further inspection, though, it did make sense. Sort of.
Soft piano music played, at odds with the cacophony of the art.