“Favorite color?” he asks.

“Don’t have one.”

“You have to,” he insists.

“Nope. I don’t.” I think about telling him that my mom insists on giving me yellow things, and Emma wishes I liked pink. But bringing up my mom feels like too much, too soon. Especially after his front seat to my mama drama last week. “Yours is green.” I say it matter-of-factly, waiting for the reaction I know I’m about to get.

“I told you.” Aiden’s hands excitedly thump the dash. “Art eyes.”

Anyone who pays attention to Aiden at all could guess his favorite color. His shirt the other night was green, the messenger bag sitting between us is a dark hunter green. The strap of his watch is lime. I’m a little unnerved by the fact that I’ve noticed this in just the few days I’ve been around him.

We’re quiet the last five minutes of the drive, and it feels like the perfect transition into our day together. I’m still in a bit of denial that I’m spending an entire day with Aiden Emerson. But also, he doesn’t feel like that Aiden anymore. Emerson. He is—I know, under the art talk and the easy banter, he’s still that same guy I only ever saw from down the length of a hallway, or through a chain-link fence, when he was on display for anyone willing to look. But when I’m with him, he just feels like Aiden. Coworker. Friend (I think). Regular guy. Hot guy. And it’s clear that the rumors were just that—Aiden isn’t turning into some kind of delinquent. Maybe he’s just over baseball.

When we exit the garage and step out into the street, there’s a sort of electricity in the air, like we’ve just walked into a carnival. Except that instead of spinning rides and clowns and games that cost too much money, there are three-story paintings, and sculptures leaping from the river, and a legion of food trucks lining the streets. Music seems to be coming from all directions, muddled and soft as it mixes between the tall buildings. The road we’re on is shut down, and there are lines of people pulsing in every direction.

Aiden pulls out his phone and starts scrolling down the screen. “I’ve made us our own Top Twenty to check out.” He holds the phone screen up to me. “The really good stuff.”

Aiden told me on the way here that normally the public votes on all of the exhibits—and there are thousands—but voting ended last week, and all of the winners have already been chosen. His list has everyone organized by medium, and as we walk to our first destination, he tells me everything he read about it. What inspired the project, and how the textile elements were all hand-woven from the artist’s and his children’s clothes, representing the bond of family. Before we even reach the exhibit, I have a vivid mental picture of what I’m about to see. “Wow, you’re a total art nerd.”