Of course Bindu’s theory had merit. Who we fell in love with . . . that magic thing that tomes were written in praise of . . . it was basically about what we sought in the world, what we wanted out of life.
What was it about Ashish that had called to Aly? Why had meeting him felt like coming home? Was it because he had an ease with life she didn’t have? What did that say about her? The thing that she did know with clarity was what had pulled their marriage apart at its seams, slowly, steadily, until it had torn. He’d been unable to support her work. But why? That was the piece she wished she could understand.
The date Cullie’s algorithmic magic had chosen for her today was an artist, which was totally up Aly’s street. As always they’d texted and talked on the phone first. He’d invited her to be part of one of his art shows. So here she was.
Aly had offered to take Cullie home first, but she said she had plans too and needed the car. She’d been cryptic about the plans, but of course Aly was happy to let her have the car.
When they got to the park, instead of dropping Aly off and leaving, Cullie parked.
“Why are you parking?”
Cullie pretended to search for something in her backpack.
“Cullie?”
“I have to pick someone up. Just call me when you need to be picked up, and I’ll swing by to get you.” Her phone rang, and she answered it with the hesitation of someone who did not want her mother to know who she was meeting.
Aly sighed. Cullie was twenty-five. She deserved her space. And Aly needed to focus on finding her date. She headed off with some confidence. She’d done this enough now that it didn’t feel like she was heading to the gallows.
The last guy Aly had gone out with had been lovely. They had bantered over coffee. He had beautiful eyes, which he’d used quite effectively to bore into Aly’s soul the entire time, making her think he was, you know, into her.
As it turned out, he wasn’t, because he didn’t respond to any of her messages after that. Apparently, this was perfectly acceptable now. Cullie told her there was even a term for it: ghosting.
Mom, you have no idea how lucky you are to be ghosted for the first time at your age. Most of us have been ghosted at least seven times by the age of seventeen.
That made no sense. When Cullie was little, she used to ask Aly about dinosaurs as though Aly had been alive to experience them firsthand. Suddenly Aly felt like Cullie might have had it right. She felt positively prehistoric.
Ever since meeting her ghoster, Aly had started to wonder if she’d been missing something. The little tremble of attraction in her belly had been . . . nice.
George Joseph, the artist, not only had two first names, but he also had two of Aly’s favorite assets: a nice voice and a nice smile. Both great for the little tremble of attraction in her belly. Which instantly registered something on the Neuroband she was wearing.
He beamed at her as she found him at the amphitheater outside Bonita Beach. He even gave her a firm handshake and friendly hug. “I’m so excited to meet a fellow art lover,” he said in his lovely voice.
He held out a brown paper shopping bag filled with clothes.
She threw a skeptical look at it. “I thought we were going to the art museum.” She was wearing a super-cute lime-yellow halter blouse that showed off her cut shoulders and arms, which she worked hard on every day, thank you very much, with skinny jeans. Was something wrong with her outfit?
Was this a new phenomenon, like ghosting, where your date brought you alternate clothing choices?
“We are at the art museum,” he said, voice laced with meaning.
Meaning that bounced right over Aly’s head.
Suddenly some floodlights came on, and a squeak escaped Aly because a statue moved.
“I’m a human installation artist. Today, I thought you’d enjoy being my partner.”
“Partner?”
“We have fifteen minutes before the opening of the exhibit.”
“Exhibit?”
Yes, she turned into a monosyllabic echo when she was caught unawares, so shoot her.
“It’s not a big deal,” George said. “We just dress in bronze bodysuits that turn us into statues and then strike some poses. You’ll be amazed at how much fun it is.”
Before she could tell him she wasn’t interested and make her escape, a familiar laugh sounded behind her. She avoided the urge to spin around, because it couldn’t possibly be.
It was.
“Sounds like the perfect date,” her ex-husband said, amusement so loud in his voice he might as well have been yelling.
“Why, hello. I’m George Joseph.” George beamed at Ashish, and Aly finally turned.
She wanted to ask what he was doing there, but it would turn a bizarre situation into an embarrassing one. So she stood there silently, refusing to make this easy for him.
“I’m Ashish. Aly’s—”
“Old friend,” Aly said. “I wasn’t expecting to run into him.”
“Cullie said she was driving you here.” Cullie. The little traitor. “I figured it would be easiest to meet her here.”
Right.
George looked lost.
“So, these bronze clothes. What kind of statues do you play?” Ashish asked with a little too much sincerity.
George found himself again. “Adult statues. The exhibit is called Love Poses.”
Sure enough, there was a huge banner with the words Love Poses scrawled across it right above them. A banner Ashish had no doubt already seen.
“Yeah, good luck getting Aly to do that,” Ashish said, his most annoying grin in place.
You’re just not the kind of woman they’re ever going to put on the air.
Aly was going to disown her only child.
“Oh.” George Joseph produced the most adorable pout. Darn it, he was so sweet. As opposed to the evil glint in her ex’s eye. “I thought she might—”
“He has no idea what I will and will not do.”
“So you’ll do it?” both men said together in entirely different tones, one all excitement, the other all challenge.
Aly snatched the bag from George and stormed off to the public restrooms.
“Cullie is waiting for you in the car,” she threw over her shoulder as she left, hoping he’d be gone by the time she returned.
He was. But George was right there. Hair and beard and all of him alarmingly bronze. And . . . well . . . he seemed to be stark naked. Well, fake stark naked. Seeing her expression, he grinned, flashing bronze-painted teeth behind bronze lips. The whites of his eyes were the only part of him that was not bronze.
But coming back to the nakedness . . . was that a prosthetic, um, organ hanging from him?
Aly shoved the bag filled with her clothes at his fake junk.
“This is an adults-only installation. Don’t worry,” he said, pointing to the seven other couples also dressed in metallic leotards. It wasn’t until she saw the other statue couples that Aly looked down at herself. Yup. Her bronze leotard had embossed, and quilted, nipples.
She squealed in shock and then let her gaze drop lower, to the pretty lifelike wiry bronze fuzz between her legs. The restroom had no full-length mirror, and Aly had been in such a rage, she hadn’t noticed.
She yanked the bag back and covered her own fake junk this time. “Are you out of your mind?” she said.