“Julian,” I manage, inclining my head.
He opens the passenger-side door of his car—a black Audi with a tan interior that smells like new leather—then snaps it closed behind me before walking over to the other side and settling into his seat. The locks click shut.
At the sound, the hairs on my body stand on end and a cool sweat creeps down my back. It takes me a second to realize that what I’m feeling is panic—that, for reasons I can’t pinpoint, my body has registered the click of the car lock like the shutting of a trap and is reacting accordingly. But it’s immediately assuaged when Julian begins to speak.
“So, what made you change your mind?” he asks, turning a smooth corner.
“About what?”
“About me. I was under the impression that you thought I was a kid, but now here we are, on a date.”
“Well, you did rescue me from a terrible caffeine headache,” I tease.
“Ah, yes, of course, it was the coffee.” He glances at me sidelong, eyes twinkling. “Definitely not my dastardly good looks.”
“You’re aware of your charms,” I say, invoking his earlier words.
Julian laughs. I like the sound of it, hearty, honest.
“I’m guessing if I go fishing for compliments I’m going to come out empty-handed with you, aren’t I.”
His voice catches just enough for me to realize that he’s nervous. I think about what Leila said, that Julian hadn’t shut up about me, and soften. This is not the preternaturally perfect apparition who has been slinking around my brain. Julian Conrad is just a guy. A guy who, inexplicably, might have a crush on me.
“I’m curious about you,” I say abruptly. “That’s why I said yes. Because I think I might just find you interesting.”
Julian sucks in a cheek to keep from smiling, and I find that I like that too.
We spend the next ten minutes making bashful, inane conversation before pulling into the parking lot of a small but handsome stucco building just outside the museum district. “Harrison & Conrad Galleries,” the decal window sign reads in a curling font. A squat man dressed smartly in all black opens the door.
“Welcome, Mr. Conrad,” he says.
In a few paces another man holds out his arms for my and “Mr. Conrad’s” coats, and another offers “Mr. Conrad” and me a glass of wine as we head inside, and, dumbfounded, I put two and two together. The smart navy suit Julian reveals under his peacoat is likely not just extremely well tailored, but custom, with emerald cufflinks that gleam not with the crisp, jagged facets of glass but the imperfect glow of the real deal. It appears that my date tonight isrich. And notworking rich like me, but vacation house in the Hamptons, private musical tutors, “My daddy owns a fucking art gallery” rich.
“Hold on,” I manage. “Areyouthe Conrad in Harrison and Conrad?”
The look Julian gives me is sheepish.
“I’m on the board, yes,” he offers. “It’s mostly a formality, but—”
He pauses, holds up his glass to a woman who is fast approaching us. “Ritika!”
Ritika is dressed like a tempered version of me in a black pantsuit that hints at a muscular chest and arms. She sweeps a lock of curly hair, styled into an asymmetric bob, behind her ear.
“Fashionably late as always,Mr. Conrad,” she deadpans. Her eyes tick to me, though the glance is not so much hostile as it is curious. She holds out a hand for me to shake, and I take it. “Dr. Sullivan, I presume?”
I reel with confusion that Julian rushes to abate.
“Ritika is my assistant,” he supplies.
“As well as his event coordinator, guest wrangler, and occasional house sitter, yes,” she says. “Nice to meet you. Love the outfit.”
“Likewise,” I say. Ritika gives me a stiff smile, then swivels to Julian to get him up to speed: the event is progressing according to schedule but for the DJ, who arrived half an hour late and is just finishing up his set—and Margaret West, the guest of honor, has just asked after his whereabouts.
“We’ll find each other,” Julian assures her, then gestures for me to enter the hall.
The exhibition space is larger than it looked from the outside, with high white walls and industrial piping above. We’re greeted by a biography of the artist, Margaret West, and an introduction to the exhibition. Crisp white downlighting illuminates each of the pieces, which, unlike the colorful image displayed on the website, arecomposed primarily of rust reds, blues, and gray-brown crusts. Margaret is a master of multiple mediums; even from our position near the entrance, I can see oil and acrylic, watercolor and ballpoint pen, even a sculpture displayed in a raised glass case. Fifty or so guests mill around the space, accepting passed hors d’oeuvres, leaning against the bar, and examining the work as early 2000s hip-hop plays in the background.
Julian gets pulled away by a guest, and so I wander around the gallery alone. Intermixed with the more abstract pieces are more realistic ones: a still life featuring a skull surrounded by rotting fruit, a nude man reaching for the sky as blood pours from his neck. I stop at a particularly strange painting: a woman, dressed in white, is draped dramatically over a table, her arms splayed around her in surrender and eyes squeezed shut in distress as a naked man squats on her stomach. His skin is white pale, and he peers at the observer through a curtain of black hair. The name:The Recurring Nightmare.