“—interesting.” When Art Critic and I turned, Graham was standing on my other side, a knowing smile on his face. “It’s so fascinating you see that,” he said. “The piece is called Spears. The artist—Franny, she’s right over there—” he motioned toward an older woman, with gray hair and a floor-length black cotton dress and at least ten oversized necklaces hanging around her gaunt neck “—she loves expressing architecture through industrial art. If you look at it this way—” he moves to the right and we both follow until we are looking at the canvas at an angle “—it’s a skyline.”

I could see it now—the way the staples formed buildings and skyscrapers, jutting into the canvas like their spears jut into the sky. But only half of me believed Graham. The other half believed I’d see whatever he told me to see.

It’s not unlike what I was doing with my own cover story. Graham would believe me because I told him to.

“Wow, what an insight,” I said. “You’re a natural.”

He motioned away from the painting, leaving Art Critic there to really think about Graham’s interpretation.

“I could tell you were struggling,” he said, stifling a laugh. “I figured I’d save you.”

I shrugged and took a sip. He likes being the hero. Interesting. I should have known he was that type—the savior, the helper, the one pulling his woman away from danger. Maybe it was some kind of personality penance from a different life. I could play into that. I could be the damsel in distress. He could save me.

“I’ll be honest,” I said. “I really hate this stuff. I find it terribly boring.”

He smiled, politely at first, someone ready to disengage at the first opportunity, but then he started laughing—hard—like I should have my own Netflix special. “Want to get out of here? There’s a great pizza place around the corner.”

“For the love of God, yes,” I said, feeding into this.

We stopped for slices at Prince Street Pizza, where the tiny pepperonis contort into little cups holding all the gooey oil, and then just walked, aimlessly, for hours. We talked about everything and nothing. I recited my story as memorized, the dead parents part adding some unexpected color now that I knew his triggers. Who better to save than a little girl with no family to speak of?

He didn’t tell me anything I didn’t already know, but I feigned interest. In his professional career. In his crew career. In his IPA tasting, his traveling, his green juices, his sober life, his parents, his brother. Vermont. The soon-to-be nephew I pretended I knew nothing about; the one that surely isn’t the reason we’re here. The reason he needs to find a girl like me. And fast.