“And I get it. I understand. You’re clearly a self-soother, but everyone needs someone. We need each other. It’s not good to feel abandoned or alone.”
“I don’t feel abandoned or alone right now. I really don’t,” he said.
“Have you ever considered therapy?”
“I’ve been to groups where people sit in a circle and talk about their feelings. I don’t like them. Have you been?”
“I’ve been in therapy sessions before…in the past, yes,” Tallie said, her blood tingling.
“Was it good for you?”
“Yes. Very much so. A game changer. But it was one-on-one therapy. Have you tried that? Do you think it could help?”
Emmett shrugged.
“Have you been single ever since you lost your wife?” she asked. She was so curious about Brenna, trying to find a way to get him to mention who she was.
Emmett held up his no-wedding-ring hand.
“I know you’re not married, but not even a girlfriend?”
“Do I seem like the kind of guy who could be a decent boyfriend?”
“Well, you’re an amazing cook, charmed yourself out of a traffic ticket, and you do dishes, so yeah, maybe,” she said, thinking of him in that towel, how his hair was almost dry now. Thinking of his thighs beneath the soft gray fabric of those pants intended for Joel. Now Odette bought Joel’s clothes, knew his sizes, knew not to buy him cologne because it got everywhere.
“But what if I’m only doing that stuff to impress you, Tallie?”
“You’re not,” she said, leaning into that dreamy fog of friendly flirtation.
“My mama raised me right.”
“Clearly,” she said. The fog cooled quick at the thought of his poor mother. “That’s why I can’t bear the idea of her getting a suicide letter from you in the mail when you’re here, perfectly fine.”
“Thanks, but it’s not for you to worry about, so don’t. Can we talk about something else? Please?”
“Yes,” she said, turning the TV up for a moment before muting it. “Should I be scared of anything you have in your backpack?”
“Absolutely not,” he said.
“But you won’t tell me what’s in there?”
“It’s unremarkable, really. Nothing that would mean anything to anyone but me.”
“Okay,” she said, nodding and eyeing him a bit longer. He didn’t seem uncomfortable with it, and she liked that; it made her feel safe.
“I like this. I’ve always liked this,” Emmett said, allowing some quiet before the subject change. He was pointing to the framed postcard sitting under the creamy glow of the lamp next to them.
“Gustav Klimt.”
“The Kiss,” he said, looking away, refocusing on the TV.
“I love art history, even though I know that particular Klimt is everywhere. Loving that piece doesn’t make me all that original. I also love Dana?,” Tallie said, pointing to another shimmery Klimt she had framed on a shelf. “One of my favorite things to do is go to the art museum alone and share space with the work. In the quiet. Sometimes I cry there,” she said. She knew talking about her own feelings helped others to be able to talk about theirs, and sharing her pure love for the art museum was an easy thing to gush about. “I don’t know why I do it—I just get…overwhelmed by my own feelings and everyone else’s and all the history of the world.”
Years ago she’d made an important connection with one of Lionel’s fancy friends who had helped Joel—unhappy with his marketing job—get the curator of contemporary art position at the museum. Joel and Odette had met working there, but that museum was Tallie’s, not Joel’s. It meant too much to her. It was the one she’d grown up going to, the one where she fell in love with sculptures and light installations and Dutch Golden Age paintings, especially the flowers. All of it! And now that Joel and Odette were gone, Tallie had reclaimed the space completely by re-upping her membership and going every Sunday after church.
“It’s popular for a reason. It’s beautiful. And you’re plenty original, trust me,” he said.
Her face warmed at the compliment. “You are, too.”
“I like Frida, Basquiat, Andy Warhol, too,” Emmett said, motioning to a stack of books by the table that included Frida’s journals, a Basquiat hardback, a thick book of Warhol Polaroids, and a biography of Augusta Savage. “Awesome. Augusta Savage. I really love sculptures. It blows my mind how someone can take a block of marble and make it look soft or like someone standing in the wind. An exact replica of the human form,” he said, lying back on her couch like he was her boyfriend.