“But it’s not a date for these only pretzels,” she repeats.
“Someday it will be.”
Ginny shakes her head, but she’s smiling. “And that someday, it won’t be pretzels.”
Noah pumps a fist. “We’ll start with a snack and work up to a someday.”
As for me, I’m kind of hungry for a someday now.
19LULU
Leo and I return to the museum, the leaderboard clearly on our side. As we walk toward the exhibit, I set my hand on his arm. I’ve always been a toucher, but Leo seems to like it, and honestly, I like touching him. It’s comforting and familiar, but also unexpected, and in a good way. Glancing around, I say, “I love this place. My mom used to take me here all the time as a kid. Well, she took me everywhere. But this was one of our regular haunts.”
“I remember you telling me that.”
“You do?”
“Yeah, we’ve talked about everything over the years, it seems. All those late-night conversations.”
“I loved our late-night conversations. Does that mean we have nothing new to say?”
He shakes his head. “It all feels new. Keep telling me stuff. What was your favorite part?”
I want to tell him stuff. Because it doesn’t feel like we’re playing the same record. It feels like we’ve tuned in to a familiar song, but on a whole new frequency.
As I reflect on his question, a memory flashes before me, bright and colorful. “The jewels. They had a display once of crown jewels. I loved them all, and I wanted to be a queen.”
He chuckles. “Not a princess?”
“No way! I had much higher aspirations. Screw that whole damsel-in-distress, rescue-me stuff. I wanted to rule.”
He shakes his head, amused. “Why am I not surprised?”
“Suits me, doesn’t it?” I ask, laughing.
“To a T.”
“And you? What did you like to do as a kid? Where did your parents take you? I seem to recall you showing me a photo of you and your brothers in front of the Liberty Bell.”
“Naturally, we pretended we cracked it. And yeah, growing up in Philly, it was all history, Founding Fathers, and the Declaration of Independence. Our parents always took us to those historic sites. It was more fun than I expected, but I think it also gave me a healthy appreciation for the past.”
I pause when he says that, taking a peek into his dark-brown eyes, searching for something. Something that worries me. The past. “Do you have that? A healthy appreciation for the past?”
“Yes.” His answer is swift and certain, bursting with meaning.
I don’t know if he means the historical past, our past, or something else. Maybe his own past with Tripp. But when we reach the exhibit hall and my eyes land on a golden painting, I stop wondering about the days that came before because I’m transfixed by what’s in front of me, visiting from its regular home in Vienna. Gustav Klimt’s most famous work: The Kiss. The colors and the mosaic-like assembly of shades of jewels are mesmerizing.
The look on the woman’s face draws me in as the man kisses her cheek. Her beauty is haunting. Her want is palpable. My arms seem to reach forward of their own accord. “Want.”
He laughs. “For you, Lulu, I’ll get it. I’ll buy you a Klimt.”
I shake my head, whispering reverently, “No. I want that kiss.”
He turns to me, his brow knitted, his voice curious and a little unsure. “You do?”
“I want that. I feel so greedy, but yes, I do. I want that. I want a kiss like that.” I’m taking a dangerous step here. I’m toying with something terribly risky. But this admission feels so necessary. This painting is doing things to me. Things that only chocolate has done. It stirs up so much longing.
“Have you had a kiss like that?” He looks as if it pains him to ask the question.
I want to answer, but I don’t want to besmirch Tripp’s memory, even though I’m not his widow. I’m his ex-wife. I left him because he loved his mistress more than me. But I don’t want to compare his kisses. They’re over.
An invisible thread pulls me closer to Leo. “It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter if I’ve had it.”
His eyes hold mine, never wavering. I don’t know what’s happening with us. But I want this moment, wholly. I want it to unfurl like a red carpet. I’m eager to find out where it leads.
I want to be like Leonardo from 1820—to make a mark on history. On my history. And I want Leo, circa 2019.
I move even closer, not caring about the people at the museum admiring the painting. They are a static haze to me. Leo’s as clear as the art. “I want that kiss.”
“Then you should have it.” His voice is gravelly, rough. It’s strewn with hidden meaning, and I can read the clues.
We both want whatever this strange new thing is that’s brewing between us.
We want it, even if we’re afraid of it.
An inexorable pull tugs us closer together, like a magnet seeking its opposite. “That painting. Maybe it’s kismet.”
“You think so?” Another step.
