“God, I hope not.” She made a face.

I dragged my hand slowly across her cheek before I headed to the bathroom. “Don’t move. I’ll be right back.”

“Wait—” she said. “Stop. Your back… Let me see that!”

I’d almost forgotten, or tried to, another mistake that felt prescient at the moment. I kept trying to turn around, but Alex stopped me, her fingers already tracing the Mona Lisa tattoo that filled most of my back.

“When did you get this—and why?”

“I was eighteen, drinking at the time.” The latter was true, the first part a lie. I’d been twenty-five and knee-deep in research about Vincent Peruggia and the painting. But I wasn’t ready to talk about my obsession.

“It’s so well done,” she said.

“Is it? I don’t see it very often. Guess I lucked out and got a good tattoo artist. Are you finished looking? I’ve got to pee.” I made my way to the bathroom but got back to bed fast, suggested we stay in it for several days.

Alex pointed out that was going to get expensive. I said it was worth it, then remembered my appointment. “Oh, wait… I’m going to see…a friend in Paris, but that’s not until the day after tomorrow.”

“You’re going away?”

“I won’t disappear.” Not like you did, I thought but didn’t say. “I’ll just be gone a couple of days.”

She asked who I was going to see, and I made it up as I said it: “A French friend, an artist, someone I’ve known since art school.” I put my arms around her, wanted to stay that way forever, and might have had I not already made the call and bought the ticket.

47

Alex listened to Luke’s breathing grow deep and even. The sheet was down around his waist, and she watched the rise and fall of his chest, her eyes lingering a moment. She studied his face, the sharp angle of his cheekbones made stronger by the shadow of his beard, his slightly thickened nose and full mouth. She couldn’t take her eyes off him. How long had it been since she’d felt so attracted to a man? She laid a hand, as gently as possible, on his chest, felt the warmth of his flesh and the beating of his heart. Luke stirred, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. Then he rolled onto his side and she pulled her hand back; she hadn’t meant to touch him but couldn’t help it. She felt embarrassed, conflicted.

This was not the way it was supposed to be.

What was she doing, sleeping with this man she hardly knew? She couldn’t lie to herself and pretend it was the first time, but she hadn’t lied when she’d said I don’t do this. She did not sleep around. Though that was only half of what she’d meant.

She waited a few minutes until Luke’s breathing grew steady again, then slipped out of bed. She had the sudden urge to flee—the room, Florence. But it felt too late.