“I don’t know.” I resist the urge to race back and do it all over again. “I think that’s the point. Our brains are wired to expect certain things—flowers to smell like flowers. But when they don’t …”

“It triggers an existential crisis,” Jack finishes, and I nod.

The next room has us stepping into a series of famous paintings, like Mary Poppins into Bert’s sidewalk chalk drawings. The usually stark-white walls are now moving projections of re-rendered landscapes and images that I’ve been studying for years. We immediately step into The Birth of Venus by Sandro Botticelli and onto the seashell Venus is standing on, so we become the Venus as pink flowers whirl around us and waves ripple behind us. Jack grabs hold of me as if he’s going to fall overboard.

He wobbles as we move into the next live painting, The Persistence of Memory by Salvador Dalí, where clocks melt over barren tree limbs, falling limp over a stalk landscape as Madonna’s “Hung Up” plays in the background.

“Shit, this place is playing with me.” His grip tightens.

“I feel high,” I say.

“Is the name of this exhibit ‘Give Jack a Panic Attack’?”

“Yes, yes it is,” I say, kissing the soft spot of his cheek, just above the line of stubble. “Did I not tell you?”

“What’s next? Dante’s Inferno?”

I smirk because, god, I love him so much. “Only one way to know.” I lead the way, pulling him by the hand around the corner.

But I stop short.

My breath catches.

We’re inside Vincent van Gogh’s Starry Night, swirls of heavy brushstrokes moving like clouds across the dark sky, illuminated by pricks of yellow starlight that ripple out. Lush green hills move with the same fluidity, and as we stare at the walls around us, the paint begins to dissolve into an actual scene of hills beneath a starry sky, clearly taken with a high-res camera lens because I forget that we’re inside.

We are the hills and the city. We’re the stars. We’re the spectators and the subjects.

I’m mesmerized.

“Wow.” Jack’s breathing becomes shallow, too. “This reminds me of that night.”

I know what he’s talking about, but I pretend I don’t. “Which one?”

He doesn’t seem to catch on. “The night I realized I lo—liked you.”

Okay, now I’m really not breathing. “You like me?” Or do you love me?

Say it.

He moves to face me and places his hands around my waist. His nose grazes mine.