A Million Kisses in Your Lifetime (Lancaster Prep )(32)
He would’ve fit in then as he fits in now. What’s that like, knowing your place? Being so confident in it?
I thought I knew, but ever since this project started, I’ve been thrown off. Feeling out of sorts.
“Okay.” Crew’s deep voice pulls me from my thoughts and I refocus on him. “Do you have any hobbies?”
“Such a general question.” Wait, am I teasing him?
“It’s a solid way to find out what you like.”
He’s got a point.
“I like to travel.”
“Where have you been?”
“Lots of places. All over Europe. Japan. I went to Russia a few years ago.”
“And how was that?” I notice he’s not taking notes.
Hmm.
“I went with my parents for an art exhibition there.”
“Right. They’re massive collectors.”
“Yes. My mother has become an expert in the art world. She’ll travel anywhere just to get a piece she’s had her eye on. We went to Russia in February a couple of years ago. It was freezing. We got stuck there for days because they kept canceling the flights due to weather,” I explain.
“Did you like Russia?”
“It was beautiful, but so terribly cold. The sky was this steely gray and it never changed. Maybe during a different season, I would appreciate it more.”
He actually types something in his notes and I wish I knew what he wrote. “What else do you like to do?”
“I like to read.”
His gaze flickers to mine. “Boring.”
“You can’t have the kind of grade point average we have without doing a lot of reading too,” I point out.
“True. I don’t read much for pleasure though.”
It’s how he uses the word ‘pleasure,’ and the way he says it, that makes me think of…
Things.
Wicked things.
What does he do for pleasure?
“What else, Birdy?” he asks, his voice quiet. Probing.
“I like art,” I admit.
“What kind?”
“All kinds. When you’re dragged to various art galleries your entire life, you start to appreciate what you see. Pieces eventually start speaking to you. Suddenly you have a growing list of artists you admire.” A sigh leaves me. “I resisted at first. I never wanted to go to museums or art galleries. I thought they were boring.”
“When you’re little, that’s what they are. Extremely boring,” he says.
“Exactly. I started appreciating it more when I was thirteen. There are pieces I fell in love with.” A smile teases the corner of my lips. “There’s one in particular I discovered a couple of years ago that’s my absolute favorite.”
His eyes light with curiosity. “What is it?”
“Oh, it’s nothing.” I should’ve never admitted that. He wouldn’t care. Not really. “Just a piece I found myself drawn to.”
“Tell me about it,” he urges, and I hurriedly shake my head.
“It’s boring.”
“Come on, Wren.”
Even though he sounds completely exasperated with me, it’s his use of my actual name that prompts me to keep talking. “It’s a piece that was created in 2007 by an artist who explores a lot of mediums and uses a variety of materials. When he created my favorite piece, I read that he was still a drug addict.”
“A drug addict? That sounds against your moral code, Birdy.”
“He’s clean now. People misstep sometimes. None of us are perfect,” I say with a shrug.
“Except for you.” He smirks at me. “You’re the most perfect girl on this campus.”
“Please. I’m definitely not perfect,” I stress, hating that he would think I am. It’s hard living up to everyone’s standards. My parents. My teachers. The girls at school who look up at me. Even the people who think I’m ridiculous.
He completely ignores what I said. “What does this piece look like?”
I sit up straighter, excited to explain it. “It’s a giant canvas covered in kisses.”
“Kisses?”
“Yes. He had the same woman kiss the canvas in varying shades of Chanel lipstick.” I smile when Crew frowns. “She’d kiss the canvas in a different way every single time. Harder. Softer. Her lips open wider, or pursed close together.”
“Okay.”
“It’s originally untitled, but it’s known in the art world as ‘A Million Kisses in Your Lifetime.’ My father tried to buy it for me as a surprise for my birthday last year, but whoever owns it now won’t part with it. And there’s another piece that’s similar, but you can’t find that one either.”
“How much is the one you want worth?”
“A lot.”
“Define a lot. That could mean a variety of amounts.”
“When it went to auction, it sold to a private collector for over five hundred thousand dollars.”
He makes a scoffing noise. “Easily bought.”
“Not when the owner won’t sell. To them, it’s priceless.” I grab my phone. “Do you want to see it?”
“Sure.”
I open Google, and in less than a minute, I have the piece brought up on my screen. Just seeing it makes my heart ache in a good way. In that visceral sense, where something calls to you, touching a part of you buried deep.