He frowned skeptically. “And you accomplish that by displaying ephemera others throw away?”
I was about to counter by telling him that even the prettiest painting in the fanciest museum faded from memory once the patrons went home. That by using things other people throw away, I took the ephemeral and make it permanent in a way no pretty watercolor ever could.
But then, all at once, I noticed how close we were standing. During our conversation he must have crept closer by increments until now there were just a scant few inches of space separating us. My mind flashed back to the other night—my wet hair dripping onto my bare shoulders, his dark brown eyes wide with surprise as he looked everywhere but at me.
He was looking at me now, though. And his eyes were everywhere. They trailed slowly down the slope of my neck, lingering at the small, jagged scar beneath my ear I got as a small child before moving on to the gentle curve of my shoulders. I wasn’t wearing anything particularly nice, just a thin T-shirt and an old pair of jeans—but his gaze was heated all the same. It made me feel dizzy and warm in a way I didn’t have words for.
I wanted to move closer to him, so I did, not bothering to stop and wonder if that was a good idea. But then a moment later he straightened, as if returning to himself, and then quickly stepped back and away from me. He stuffed his hands deep into the pockets of his trousers once again, staring down at his shiny wing-tipped shoes as though they were the most fascinating things in the world.
The moment was over. But somehow, it felt like something between us had changed. There was a sweet, electric anticipation in the air that hadn’t been there before. I wasn’t sure I had words for what it was. All I knew was that I wanted to feel it again. I wanted to feel him. The hard planes of his broad chest beneath my hands. His lips, his breath, hot and sweet against my neck.
I shook my head to try and clear it. This was a man I hardly knew, I reminded myself. This was my roommate.
It didn’t work.
“I . . . can try and explain my art to you,” I offered, just for something to say. In my head, Sam’s voice shouted, Bad idea, bad idea, like a warning klaxon. I ignored it. Quite frankly, in that moment I didn’t care if it was a bad idea. My heart was racing, blood pumping hot inside my veins. “If you want.”
He hesitated, still not looking at me. He shook his head.
“That is probably not a good idea,” he said, echoing the voice in my head. “I suspect I am a rather hopeless case when it comes to modern art.”
I could sense that he was trying to put some distance between us after . . . well, after whatever it was that had just happened. I didn’t want him to.
“I’ve never met anyone who’s a hopeless case.”
His eyes fluttered closed.
“You have never met anyone like me, Miss Greenberg,” he said, sounding almost sad about it, before turning and walking out of my bedroom.
It was another few minutes before I was able to collect myself enough to think straight. When I did, I sank to my bed, burying my face in my hands.
Sam’s words of warning from the other day suddenly came back to me: Living with someone you think is hot never ends well. You either end up sleeping with them—which is a huge mistake, nine times out of ten—or else you drive yourself nuts because you want to sleep with them.
I groaned.
Well, it looked like Sam had been right.
What the hell was I going to do?
SIX
Letter from Mr. Frederick J. Fitzwilliam to Mrs. Edwina Fitzwilliam, dated October 26
My Dearest Mrs. Fitzwilliam,
I hope this letter finds you well and in good spirits.
A lot has changed in the fortnight since I last wrote. I now live with a young woman by the name of Miss Cassie Greenberg. I am learning a tremendous amount about art, twenty-first-century popular culture, profanity, and attire simply by observing her and being in her very occasional presence. Every day I feel more myself again, and more at ease in this strange modern world.
And so again I ask: please stop worrying so much over me. There is no need for you to write so often, nor for you to repeatedly inquire after my health with Reginald. （Yes, he has told me everything.） I am as sound in mind, body, and spirit as I have ever been.
Furthermore, I must insist you end the arrangement you have made with Miss Jameson on my behalf. I hardly know this woman, and, as you well know, Paris was over a century ago. I would end the arrangement myself, but I think that would not only be unwise, but also unfair to both me and Miss Jameson. Please also ask Miss Jameson to stop sending me gifts. She has ignored my entreaties even though I have sent each gift back to her, unopened as they arrive.