There are a multitude of exhibitions. One that dives into the creative and technical process of producing, promoting, and presenting all kinds of digital media. Another that dives into Jim Henson’s impact on the film and television industry, from Sesame Street to Labyrinth (1986). Even more, unpacking the behind-the-scenes of A Space Odyssey (2001), The Simpsons, and The Dark Crystal: Age of Resistance.

I’m wide-eyed as I take in all the details I missed the last time I was here. Even though I’m looking at the art, I can feel Emmitt looking at me. He doesn’t even pretend to redirect his gaze when I catch him staring.

“There are much more interesting things to look at,” I say, poking his rib cage.

His lips curve in amusement. “I don’t know about that, love.”

“Whatever,” I say, reaching out to tangle our fingers together and pull him toward the exhibit. “Come on.”

He doesn’t protest, but he does tilt his head quizzically. “You seem cheerful today. Did you receive good news?”

I shake my head. “No. I’m just in a good mood. You did really well in your scenes for the short film. USC decisions come out soon. Big things are happening, you know? And if everything works out, my parents will pay my tuition. I’m excited for everything to come.”

“Ah,” he says, and his smile takes on more of an earnest touch. “I’m glad to see you in high spirits.”

“Let’s hope it lasts,” I say, crossing my fingers with my free hand. “Inshallah.”

He follows suit, the lights above glittering against his rings as he intertwines his pointer and middle finger. “What you said.”

47

For the rest of the museum visit, Emmitt is quiet and observant, taking a lot of photos, more of me than the pieces on display.

Before we leave, Emmitt asks me to stand in front of the glass doors at the entrance of the museum, and I indulge him, rolling my eyes. He takes his camera back out to take the picture, crouching slightly for a better angle.

“You have way too many pictures of me,” I say later, as we walk to the M train.

Emmitt shrugs, flicking through the photos on his camera. “You keep saying that, yet it could not be further from the truth.”

“You are way too confident in yourself,” I say. Our hands keep bumping into each other, his rings cool against my knuckles. “Like, way too confident.”

“You love it,” Emmitt says back, blinking down at me languidly.

“You wish,” I say, but I think it might be true. He doesn’t need to know that, though—he’ll just get a bigger head. “I think you need to come back down to earth.”

I can tell by the look in his eyes that he has some kind of smart-ass remark to that, so I press my index finger to his mouth. “Shhh. Let’s enjoy the silence.”