The Anatomical Shape of a Heart(15)

He was beautiful. I’d forgotten just how much. Not only that, he was flat-out happy. Glittering dark eyes. Chest rising and falling, as if he’d just sprinted uphill. Enormous grin splitting his face, with that single perfect dimple studding his cheek like a beauty mark.

And what? Now I was smiling right back? Get control of yourself, Beatrix.

My shoulders hit the magazine rack. Crap—I’d backed up into it? Maybe he hadn’t noticed. “How did you find me?” I said in the calmest voice I could muster.

He pointed to my nametag. “Only two Alto Markets, and this one is on the N-Judah line.”

“And you just happened to be in the area.”

“Oh, no. I went well out of my way to find you.” He knocked the toe of my shoe with the toe of his boot. “I believe your Damaged Goods photo said, ‘Summation of my sucky day.’ Why are you having a bad day?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe it’s because a freaking cop showed up at my house last night to question me about the vandalizing inside the Legion of Honor.”

“What? Are you joking?”

“Does it look like I’m joking?”

He glanced behind him—nothing but a rack of dehydrated vegetable snacks and Mozart raining down from the speaker above—and swiped a hand over his hair to push it out of his eyes. “Shit. Because of the photo you posted?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“What did you tell them?”

“That your name is Jack, you’re seventeen, you’re a Buddhist, and they should talk to Panhandler Will for your whereabouts. I also provided a sketch so they could identify you.”

He stared at me blankly while his mouth made a little O shape.

I swung around and spritzed the empty magazine rack. “That’s what I should have told Officer Dickwad. But I didn’t.”

“Jesus and Mary, it’s hard to tell when you’re joking.”

Spritz. Spritz. Spritz. “The cop threatened me and my mom with jail. He’s in charge of the vandalism department, and he thinks you’re part of Discord.”

“I swear to you on my life, Beatrix. I’m not.”

Oh, don’t think I didn’t notice my name on his tongue. I shot him a look.

“Sorry. Miss Damaged Goods.”

I grumbled to myself, sighed, and said, “Adams.” If the police could track me, what was stopping a professional criminal like Jack?

“Adams,” he repeated. “Beatrix Adams.”

“Bex,” I corrected, because apparently I’d temporarily lost my mind.

Two roselike spots bloomed over the apples of his cheeks. “Bex Adams,” he said in a softer voice. “It’s so strange that I don’t know that already. I feel like I should.”

I concentrated superhard on wiping away my spritzes.

“Vincent,” he said, bracing one arm on the rack beside me.

That name sounded vaguely familiar to me, but I couldn’t put my finger on why. “Jack Vincent?”

“Jackson Vincent, if you want to get technical. You know. In case you need to turn me in to Officer Dickwad or something,” he joked.

“It’s not funny.”

“I’m really, really sorry. I just thought … damn.” He picked at a peeling section on the magazine rack. “I found you right away on the anatomy art site. BioArtGirl. Your self-portrait is crazy good. All your work is incredible. Blows mine out of the water.”

“I wouldn’t know. All I’ve seen are some dripping letters done with a paint pen.”

“I didn’t deface the heart diagram,” he argued. “I’m not an anarchist—I love art. And I especially wouldn’t destroy something that meant that much to you.”

Oh, he’d definitely read my post. I mean, obviously he had, but it was weird to have him acknowledging it right in front of me.

“I was trying to … I don’t know. Get your attention, I suppose. Communicate.”

“You could’ve sent a card.”

He struggled not to smile. “I have problems sticking to the Middle Path.”

I shook my head, not knowing what he was going on about.

“It’s a Zen thing. We try to live in the middle, somewhere between self-denial and self-indulgence. No extremes.”

“Wow. Major failure there.”

“I told you I was a bad Buddhist.”

I didn’t say anything for a few moments. “You liked my stuff?”

“That X-ray figure study of the torso with the bones showing through?” He whistled. “Amazing.”

Err … that was a self-portrait drawn in a mirror, but it only showed one of my breasts, and only one person outside my family had seen those up close and personal, so it wasn’t like anyone would know. It was Serious Art, and sort of clinical, but I’d forgotten it was posted, and now I was feeling as if I’d accidently given Jack a Girls Gone Wild photo of me flashing my tits. But he wasn’t acting weird about it, so I probably shouldn’t feel weird about it either. I discreetly wiped sweat off my brow.

“I seriously don’t know anyone with that much talent,” he continued while I was quietly freaking out. “Now I get why you want to draw the dissections.”

“Well, that’s not happening.”