“Yeah,” he says, tugging my ponytail. “He’s got it bad for you.”

When I get home from my shift, there’s a blond wig and a silver beaded dress with tags from the vintage store artfully arranged on my bed, even though the ball is still two weeks away. I try the dress on. It hangs tight at my waist; the skirt swishes and twirls. It’s the prettiest thing I’ve ever worn. It fits perfectly.

— Chapter 51 —

Robert makes me dinner at his place. I think Ethan is a little miffed he’s not invited, but he’s trying hard not to let it show. He says it’s good that I’m going to Robert’s, because he can use the time to paint. He likes to work on his canvases at different times of day so he can get all the layers just right. I think he burned the blue and red one. I came home one day and there were ashes in the fireplace and the house stunk of burnt plastic. He didn’t say anything about it, so I didn’t ask, in case it was something he needed to keep private.

The new painting he’s working on is abstract too. Full of brown curves and squiggles. It doesn’t really look like anything, so I don’t get how he’ll know when he’s done. I don’t ask, because I don’t want to hurt his feelings. I like it, even if I don’t understand what it’s supposed to be. Something about it is soft and sweet.

When I get to Robert’s, he opens the door before I even knock, hands me a plate loaded with lasagna, and says, “Do me a favor. Run this to Ethan. He never remembers to stop painting to feed himself.” I bring the plate back to Ethan and we swoon over Robert and how kind he is.

Ethan plasters a kiss on my cheek. “Go on your date already, silly girl! I won’t wait up.” He sits down with his plate of lasagna to study his painting while he eats.

Robert has a stillness to him. Even when he’s moving around the kitchen, chopping cucumbers for the salad, or pouring wine in my glass, there’s nothing frantic about it. Everything is purposeful, like what he’s doing at that moment is the only thing he could possibly want to be doing.

I feel like I can tell Ethan every little bit of myself. Every inch of my brain, even the stupid stuff, and he always wants to hear it and he always understands. But with Robert, I don’t talk much. My words feel heavy when I do. Gestures have more meaning. His fingertips grazing the back of my hand. A look. It’s calming. It leaves me with room for my own quiet.