Puddle Jumping(26)

In my head, I was moving toward my destiny.

But the best laid plans of mice and men often go awry, as I would find out firsthand.

Colton looked amazing, so that wasn’t an issue.

I was in a dress for God’s sake. That wasn’t the problem.

We enjoyed the ride down to the museum together, listening to music and holding hands. I’d ask questions and he’d respond. We talked. In my mind, I kept trying to plan out exactly how things would go for the rest of the evening. But that was probably where it started to unravel. Anything my mind could have come up with would not have been what Colton would have been thinking as soon as we cleared the doors to the museum.

We arrived early enough to start our walk through the exhibits, milling through the larger than usual crowds. Because, apparently, other people thought looking at art on Stupid Cupid’s Day was fun, too. Of course, they were pretty much old people. Like, at least thirty-five or older, and they were drinking and conversing, causing more noise than usual.

It didn’t bother me, of course. I was with him. And nothing ever mattered when we were together except each other.

Ask me anything about art. Impressionism. Surrealism. Contemporary. Avant-Garde. I’m pretty sure I could tell you enough to warrant an eye roll and cause you to mutter that I’m a snobby know-it-all. But I paid attention to what Colton talked about. I tried to see as clearly as he did the things that fascinated him. And at times, he could become so focused it was as if I were blending into the background instead of being by his side, but I didn’t care.

Because the only thing I was that passionate about . . . was him.

You call it obsessive, I call it being devoted.

We walked for a bit and discussed certain pieces, until someone recognized him. See, being in a museum with a locally famous artist, you don’t always get to lay low. And with the amount of people around that night, I was surprised he hadn’t been accosted earlier. That knowledge did nothing to ease my frustration when the time came for our reservation and Colton was still talking art to a handful of adults who were hanging on his every word.

I tried to interrupt but there was no real way to do it. Eventually, I had to step in front of him, feeling stupid and small, unimportant and immature as I relayed I would go to the restaurant alone and wait for him. Which is exactly what I did. And as I waited and waited and waited at the table for him to arrive, I realized I was having Valentine’s dinner . . . by myself.

It hurt. A lot. But I didn’t want to be the girl who cried into her overpriced pasta.

No. Not me.

Instead, I counted all of the good things we had. I tried to envision what the rest of the night would be like. Unfortunately, after half an hour, I knew it would be no use to wait any longer – and the waitress said she might need the table, so I ordered his food to go and walked it to the car myself before going back inside the museum to find him.

He was in the exact same spot. Alone now. Staring at one of three pieces from the Van Gogh exhibit: Starry Night.

“I was looking for you.” I tried not to sound upset, and hoped I had succeeded.

Finally, he acknowledged me. “I’ve read this was Van Gogh’s way of portraying hope. Hope from escaping his hell on earth; being trapped in his body as it began to recede. An escape from his mind as he stayed in an asylum. Those clouds . . . they’re representations of freedom. Heaven. A cure for his illness.”

His fingers rose to point.

“The brush strokes are impeccable. The majority of the print is from memories of his childhood.”

I just stood as still as possible, taking in the meaning behind of each of his words.

“And what would you paint from your childhood?” I asked, simply a whisper, forgetting about being put-out from dinner, and now completely entranced by him.

He looked over at me with that smile. Slight. Meaningful.

“You.”





Blood rushed up to my face and I gripped his hand in mine, asking him quietly if we could go back to his house. I felt alive . . . so freaking alive and excited to get back to his place. I didn’t care about anything that had just happened. Just like that.

The night was chilly, but clear, and I vividly remember looking up at the stars, my chest swelling and filling up to the point of almost bursting because I loved him so much. I loved him with a physical ache in my chest.

Love? Sometimes it’s so big it hurts.

Once back at the house, I put the food in to reheat because I figured we would need the energy for what I had planned later on. And while we waited, I skimmed his channels for a movie to watch or order. Settling on one that looked romantic in an odd way, I set it up and plated the food, making us a little picnic on the floor. My bouquet was sitting right off to the side of us and I liked the way it felt. It was just right.

But the movie? The movie was probably the second worst thing of the night.

I honestly had no idea what it was about. I’d barely heard of it and none of my friends had ever said anything about seeing it. How was I supposed to know?

It wasn’t until we were halfway through finishing our food that it dawned on me that the lead character had Asperger’s.

By then Colton was fascinated, his attention fixated on the movie, his brow creased as he watched. I was swept away in the female lead’s part of the story. At times she was cold, and at times she was irritated. But I saw a lot of myself in her, and it was . . . odd. Our food went cold and neither of us spoke as the film progressed, but I could feel the tension in the room begin to rise.