Long Ball(62)

“—the Pavilion.”

I frown at his interruption. “I was going to say the Boeing Galleries. I thought you hadn’t been there?”

“I haven’t, but everyone’s heard of the Pavilion and its architecture.”

I hadn’t known it was so renowned, but at least he doesn’t seem bored. “Alex told me about these statues at the galleries that looked like milk crates once. It sounds sufficiently bizarre enough to investigate.” She has been known to tease me about odd things like that, knowing I’ll never see them, wanting to get a reaction.

He slides a hand across my thigh, stopping my breath, on the way to seizing my hand in his. “You are delightfully expressive.”

A warmth crawls up my chest and I hope the blush doesn’t look as obvious as it feels. “What can I say, I’m an open book.” That’s a lie, though, since there are things about me I can’t tell him. Things I won’t tell him.

He smiles and turns to watch the city go by outside his window.

I do the same, casually checking him out in the weak reflection of my window until we get there.

A few people mill about the entrance, and we pay and make our way through the central promenade, stopping for a couple of sodas. Dylan’s thin zip-up hoodie covers most of his tattoos, but he still gets a few looks from people. Maybe he’s hiding behind the shades, rather than shutting people out. I’d hate to be stared at the way he is. Is it because of his ink that they gawk? Or because he’s so damn attractive?

Spontaneously, I take his hand, feeling a little protective of him. Also, a little bit of kinship. Whatever it is about him that causes the stares, the judging, it’s not something he seems comfortable with. I get that. It’s the way I feel when my father parades me around at his charity benefits, as if I’m the reason to donate or support a cause.

He looks down at our hands—even with the shades, the surprise is visible on his features—but his lips quirk in a little smile, and he gives my hand a little squeeze, somehow sending a spark through the innocent gesture.

He’s definitely not out of my system, even after the incredible night we spent together.

“You’re into architecture?” I ask, remembering his comment in the cab.

“Not really, though I do appreciate good acoustics.”

Something the pavilion is famous for, according to my brochure. “Do you go to a lot of concerts?”

He takes a long sip of soda. “Yes. You?”

“Not as many as I’d like.” And I imagine they’re not at all the kind of concerts Dylan goes too.

“Maybe you’ll have more time now that you’ve gotten your degree.”

“Things are going to change, but I can’t see myself drowning in free time. Only new obligations in a new city.” Only this time, I’ll know ever fewer people.

He swings my hand a little. “Yeah, I suppose getting to the top is only half the battle. Maintaining it is just as time consuming.”

He glances at the plaza, a small frown appearing at the size of the crowd milling about. I’m not a fan of noisy throngs either, so I don’t try to entice him toward the Cloud Gate.

I take my hand back, fiddling with my straw as a pretense, but mostly because I need autonomy for my next confession. “Sometimes I wonder if it’s worth it.”

“The time?”

I keep my gaze on the ground in front of me. “Yeah. I’m getting something I’ve always wanted, but it sort of feels like maybe I had to give up a lot of myself to get it.”

“A trade off.” He says it in a way that tells me he gets it. I wonder if he has something similar he can relate too or if he just is that good at making a person feel understood.

But I’m not brave enough to ask. “Yes. A trade off. I know the grass is always greener on the other side, but sometimes I wonder who I’d be if I didn’t want this so badly. Didn’t give up so many hours of my life to the dedication it takes.”

We amble along a few more paces before he bumps his shoulder into mine. “Let’s play pretend. Let’s say you never wanted to be a musician. What would you have done?”

“I don’t even know.”

“You suck at this game.”

I snort. “Okay. I like to think I’d still be doing something in the arts, but I think the exact same thing would have happened if I’d chosen any other career in the arts. So, I guess in that vein, I’d be a florist and own my own shop.”

“Is that a metaphor? Stopping to smell the roses?” He seems to study me. “I could see you surrounded by flowers, arranging bouquets.”

“Can you?” I love the way he looks at me, the way he takes everything in behind his shades. I feel it even though I can’t see it. “It would be so relaxing. How could you ever get tired of being surrounded by flowers all day? And they make people happy.”

“You wouldn’t want to be someone famous or a doctor?”

“Nope. I care about the music, not the glory. As for the medical profession, I can’t stand needles. See this?” I tilt my head so he can see the tiny scar on my earlobe. “Seventh grade. Brooke Cunningham’s birthday party sleepover. The other girls thought it would be cool to pierce our own ears, and I went along with it. Peer pressure. I fainted after they did one ear and it ended up getting infected.”