He gestures first to the woman with long black hair.
“Rose is an artist,” he explains. “A brilliant one. Has shows all over the world. You’ve probably seen her work before—she submits a lot of it anonymously.”
I squint at her.
“Can you give me a hint on which ones?” I try.
“Not a chance. I keep my friends’ secrets,” Julian says in a tone that is teasing but firm.
“You’re no fun,” I say. My finger trails to the other man. Even in this rendition, his features are delicate. “How about Alphonse? Where is he now?”
Julian hums, like he’s suddenly remembered something.
“Alphonse…” he says softly, “is no longer with us.”
My heart seizes. There is pain in his tone, yes, but also acceptance. This is an old wound, scabbed over but still raw under the surface.
“Oh,” I say, stunned into stupidity. I’m astonished. I look at the boy closer. Alphonse’s arms are crossed, his expression more tempered than the others’. I imagine him as the source of reason in the group, the one who kept them out of trouble. I wonder how it would feel to lose Winona and I have to exhale out the horror that the thought brings.
“When did he—?”
“A long time ago,” Julian interrupts. I understand it for the gentle reprimand it is—that I shouldn’t pry further. For a moment, I regret asking anything at all, and then change my mind. There has to be a reason why this painting is displayed so prominently. He must want people to ask. To keep Alphonse alive, in this small and mighty way.
“He was so young,” I say, eventually.
“He made good use of the time he had,” Julian says.
Sadness suddenly floods me. What Julian has in the way of art, he lacks in mementos of family. The only child of only children, he isthe last remaining member of his line, cut off from tradition, heritage, from a history that I have taken for granted. What family he has now he has had to build.
I turn and meet his stare.
“What are you thinking?” Julian asks.
I’m thinking a lot of things. That despite his veneer of perfection, Julian’s life has been filled with endless loss. That the caricature I built of him as this rich, erudite, arrogant playboy seems silly now. The real Julian Conrad is unmoored and searching for his anchor.
“That you’re a bit too good to be true,” I say instead.
Julian snickers.
“I’m being serious,” I say. “I’m half convinced that you just rented out a model apartment to impress your dates with.”
“A fascinating theory,” Julian says. “So, the commissioned painting of me and my friends…?”
“An add-on to the package, to lend to the illusion,” I explain. “A broke art student in a basement whips one out for you in three to five business days. Comes complete with a tragic backstory.”
The corner of Julian’s mouth twitches upward with mirth.
“Ah, yes, the dead friend trick,” he says. “Gets all the ladies going.”
“Sorry,” I say, wincing. “I shouldn’t have joked about that. I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but I put my foot in my mouth a lot.”
Julian tilts his head to regard me more closely.
“Don’t apologize,” he says. “You say what you mean. It’s refreshing.”
“Yeah, well, you won’t get a performance from me,” I say. “Just awkward, radical honesty.”
His eyes brighten with affection. Then, “In the spirit of radical honesty, are we going to talk about what happened out there today? With Jared.”