Dolly All the Time(61)

“Yes,” I say. “It’s beautiful. But also so weird. It gives off a feeling like it’s…”

“Breathing,” he says. “I know. I bought it because I loved it, but also I had this feeling it was important for me to have. It makes me think of how the things we build belong to their surroundings and they matter. They interact with us.”

I nod at the painting. “I bet Grant hates it,” I say.

He laughs. “He does. Good guess.”

We are standing too close. I am fighting the urge to lean back into him. What heaven it would be to be in Stewart’s arms, looking up at this masterpiece. I think of Naomi and remember why I can’t take the Mona Lisa home to my bathroom, so I step away to admire his books. Classics and contemporary fiction. Business books, three about Warren Buffett. There’s a framed family photo and another of him in a tuxedo with a chestnut-haired woman.

“Audrey?” I ask.

“Yes,” he says.

“I guess Helena doesn’t read the Post either,” I say. In the photo he has a wineglass in one hand and his other in a pocket. He’s not touching her anywhere.

There’s a black-and-white photo of a couple on a sailboat. He has Stewart’s profile and the same intense gaze. She’s leaning in to him like she’s dying for a kiss. “That’s my grandfather Oliver,” he says. “And my grandmother, Lucinda.”

I take the photo and run my finger over the glass. “What a photo,” I say.

“Yeah, they were truly in love. So good for each other, from what everyone says. She always had his back, and I think it helped him do everything he did. He died the week after she did.”

“That’s so sad.”

“Maybe,” he says. “But also kind of nice.”

We’re standing there looking at each other, and the air gets heavy between us. I want to kiss him as much as Lucinda wanted to kiss Oliver. I want to snatch him up and keep him like a diamond among all my common things.

“Can I have a glass of water?” I ask.

“Sure,” he says. He starts to say something else but doesn’t, and I follow him into the foyer, past the stairs, down a long hallway, to a wide-open kitchen that must run the entirety of the back of the house. It’s sleek and modern but with copper where you’d expect stainless steel and cream-colored cabinetry where you’d expect white. I have never dreamed of a kitchen, but for the rest of my life I will dream of this one.

He pours water from a jug in the fridge and asks, “Can I get you anything else? Tea?” He’s opening and closing cupboards, looking for where Helena keeps his tea. I’m watching him do it, looking behind things and then crossing the room to look somewhere else. And my heart is doing something it’s never done before. This objectively handsome and good guy is going to break his own brain to get me a cup of tea, and I am falling for him. I am going to cross this room and wind my arms around his neck and pull him toward me.

And it’s going to end really, really badly.

“I don’t actually need tea, but thank you,” I say. My voice has gone an octave higher and I’m talking too fast. I need to get out of here. “I forgot I promised Gus I’d stop by my place and pick up his Red Sox sweatshirt while I was here. So I’m just going to Uber there. And then I can meet you in the morning?” I make a circle in the air with my finger to suggest a helicopter.

He closes a cabinet and turns to me. “What are you doing?” he asks.

“Nothing. I just need to go by my apartment, and I might as well stay there.” I pull out my phone and open the Uber app, and damn if it isn’t $87 to get to my place right now. I look up to find him watching me.

“Did I do something?”

“Of course not.” Nothing besides opening six different cupboards to find me some tea. Honestly, how dare you. “I just need to,” and I gesture to the front door with my head.

“Fine, but I’ll take you.”

“You don’t have to do that,” I say.

“You’d rather pay a hundred bucks than get in my car?”

“No, but,” I start. He’s already grabbed his keys. I follow him into the two-car garage that’s just off the kitchen. Inside is only one car, a Jaguar. I don’t say anything about renting out the extra spot. Everything about that luxury car and the extra luxury of that empty parking space reminds me of how futile my crush on Stewart Whitfield is. Our lives are just too different.

The Jaguar is a 1961, he tells me, as we pull out onto the road. “It’s an E-Type, best one they ever made. Want me to tell you about it until you want to poke your eyes out with a fork?”

I give him a tight smile and turn back toward the window. I don’t want to joke around. I want to get home and away from the pull of him. The physical need to touch him and the emotional need to tell him how moved I am by his desire to make me tea. His passion for permanence, his fear of chaos. I’m moved by every single thing about this man, and I need to stop it. I feel tears prick the back of my eyes for something I cannot have. “It’s a beautiful car,” I say to the window.

“You okay?” he asks.

“Just tired,” I lie.

We are silent for the twenty-minute drive to Brighton. I think back to how easy it was in the limo in Providence, practicing holding hands like it was nothing. Everything’s changed now. I feel like any touching at all in private would lead to my dress puddled around my ankles.