I bite my lip, struggling for words. "It's kind of like...he's, you know..." Something witty, something smart. Nothing comes. Casper glances at me sidelong while I stutter and grasp blindly, before she grins.

"Dude, easy. It's just a picture."

My mouth snaps shut. I stare at the mural, face burning.

"Seriously," she says. "I'm not some fancy art person who tries picking apart the meaning of everything. If something's pretty, I like it. If something's not...I don't. I'm not even big on art."

"Then why did you ask to come to the gallery?"

"Like I said, I was really tired of being stuck at home."

"Oh." A pause. "Do you like this one?" It's an easier question. So much easier.

"I do." She shoves her hands into her pockets. "How about you?"

The tension slips out of me. "Yeah. Me, too."

"You know who'd like this kind of stuff?" she says, and meanders down the hall for the next mural. "RoxWell. You talk to him, right?"

By some miracle I manage not to trip over my own feet. "Uh—yeah. I mean, sort of. I guess. If you call what we do talking. You know him?"

"Know him? I'm the one who told him he should contact you." She casts a patient look at me over her shoulder. "He lives around here, too, you know."

My heart stutters in my chest and I bite my lip. So did RoxWell know who I was talking about when I told him I was going out with someone? Does he think we're here on some kind of date? That would be stupid and even if it were true, I don't see why he'd care. "Yeah. He's just...not the talkative type, I guess."

"He's shy." After looking around, Casper leans up to gently brush her fingers over the painting, tracing lines of blue and gray. They don't have the kind of texture oil paintings do or anything, but she seems fascinated with the detail and fine lines the artist managed to get out of a can. "He's got a crappy home life, you know. His parents used to be real uppity, pushing him to be this perfect kid. Then his dad died and now his mom pretends he doesn't exist. But he loves art and music. Like, really loves it. He plays guitar. And sings."

"Is he good?"

"I think so, but he tells me I don't know enough about music to judge, so what do I know?" She shrugs and pulls her hand back, rubbing her fingers together. "If you two don't talk, 'exactly,' what do you do?"

I stare at the mural because it's easier not to blush when I do. "He...uh, he sends me song lyrics."

"He does that sometimes, yeah."

"All the time with me."

"I should introduce you two in person. Might get him to warm up to you some."

The idea of meeting this faceless person who likes all the right music makes me uneasy. I've talked to him—talked at him—plenty of times. Told him things without really meaning to, because he was a nameless, faceless void to throw my pain at.