Birthday Suit

by Lauren Blakely

  “What are they?”

  He looks her over. “Everyone loves a winner.”

  Ah, there’s more to his competitiveness than I’d thought. Noah is trying to win her heart by . . . winning.

  Noah gathers us all in front of the temple, and we take a selfie, pointing to the graffiti. Our photograph is proof that we were here, and hopefully we’re the first to reach our clue.

  As we rush back outside to complete the last item in the task—a photo demonstrating teamwork—Leo nudges me. “What do you think that graffiti was all about? I saw on a placard that some European tourists left marks on the temple way back when this was still in Egypt.”

  “That’s what I think it was. Graffiti, plain and simple.”

  “You don’t think that guy was anyone special?”

  “Everyone is someone special. But no, I don’t think it means anything. Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.”

  “And sometimes Leonardo from the early 1800s likes to leave his mark on temples?”

  “Evidently.” I smile at him, and he shoots an easy, lopsided one back at me.

  Sometimes conversations are simple. Sometimes they’re about what they’re about.

  They aren’t about fear or worry or anything else. They aren’t about whether someone is coming home late or drunk or has missed another day of work.

  They are what they are.

  Once we’re on the front steps again, we toss around ideas for how to show teamwork, and we settle on an easy answer, but one that demonstrates it perfectly.

  I take a deep, steadying breath. “Don’t drop me.”

  Leo asks a tourist to take our picture.

  On the middle step, on the count of three, my teammates lift me over their heads. Leo’s strong hands curve around my hips as he forms the foundation, holding me and lifting me higher, and higher still.

  For a split second, I worry that I might fall, but then I talk back to my nervous mind because that’s an ancient worry. I worried all the time with Tripp.

  I worried he’d be late for a date. I worried he’d miss an appointment. Worried he’d miss payment on a bill.

  My throat tightens as I recall the pain of losing my husband not to someone else but to something else. A potent, powerful siren that had Tripp in its grasp until his last days.

  In our case, everything was about that something else. Everything was about addiction, dependency, denial.

  Right now, I shove that all away.

  This moment is a new moment. A beautiful morning. It’s a day we can make our mark on.

  So I leave graffiti on the air.

  “Leonardo 1820,” I call out, under a crystal-blue sky on the steps of the Metropolitan Museum of Art in Manhattan. I’m held by one person I know well and two people I’m getting to know. But I have no worries. They won’t let me fall.

  Knowing that, feeling it in my bones—I’m ebullient.

  The tourist snaps the picture.

  After Leo sets me down, Ginny sends in the picture, effectively recording our time to the finish line for this clue. “We don’t have to return to the park for an hour or so.”

  Leo looks to me. “We have an hour and twenty-two minutes. What do you want to do, o riddle master?”

  The answer comes into focus immediately. “I want to see the traveling Klimt exhibit. His paintings are here on loan from all over the world. Want to go with me?”

  “Yes.”

  Ginny covers her eyes with her hand, squinting. “I’m hungry. I think I’ll grab a pretzel.”

  Noah swivels around, jumping at the chance, it seems. “Pretzels are on me.”

  “But it’s not a date.”

  “I know. It’s only pretzels. I can buy the only pretzels though.”

  “But it’s not a date for these only pretzels,” she repeats.

  “Someday it will be.”

  Ginny shakes her head, but she’s smiling. “And that someday, it won’t be pretzels.”

  Noah pumps a fist. “We’ll start with a snack and work up to a someday.”

  As for me, I’m kind of hungry for a someday now.

  19

  Lulu

  Leo and I return to the museum, the leaderboard clearly on our side. As we walk toward the exhibit, I set my hand on his arm. I’ve always been a toucher, but Leo seems to like it, and honestly, I like touching him. It’s comforting and familiar, but also unexpected, and in a good way. Glancing around, I say, “I love this place. My mom used to take me here all the time as a kid. Well, she took me everywhere. But this was one of our regular haunts.”

  “I remember you telling me that.”

  “You do?”

  “Yeah, we’ve talked about everything over the years, it seems. All those late-night conversations.”

  “I loved our late-night conversations. Does that mean we have nothing new to say?”

  He shakes his head. “It all feels new. Keep telling me stuff. What was your favorite part?”

  I want to tell him stuff. Because it doesn’t feel like we’re playing the same record. It feels like we’ve tuned in to a familiar song, but on a whole new frequency.

  As I reflect on his question, a memory flashes before me, bright and colorful. “The jewels. They had a display once of crown jewels. I loved them all, and I wanted to be a queen.”

  He chuckles. “Not a princess?”

  “No way! I had much higher aspirations. Screw that whole damsel-in-distress, rescue-me stuff. I wanted to rule.”

  He shakes his head, amused. “Why am I not surprised?”

  “Suits me, doesn’t it?” I ask, laughing.

  “To a T.”

  “And you? What did you like to do as a kid? Where did your parents take you? I seem to recall you showing me a photo of you and your brothers in front of the Liberty Bell.”

  “Naturally, we pretended we cracked it. And yeah, growing up in Philly, it was all history, Founding Fathers, and the Declaration of Independence. Our parents always took us to those historic sites. It was more fun than I expected, but I think it also gave me a healthy appreciation for the past.”

  I pause when he says that, taking a peek into his dark-brown eyes, searching for something. Something that worries me. The past. “Do you have that? A healthy appreciation for the past?”

  “Yes.” His answer is swift and certain, bursting with meaning.

  I don’t know if he means the historical past, our past, or something else. Maybe his own past with Tripp. But when we reach the exhibit hall and my eyes land on a golden painting, I stop wondering about the days that came before because I’m transfixed by what’s in front of me, visiting from its regular home in Vienna. Gustav Klimt’s most famous work: The Kiss. The colors and the mosaic-like assembly of shades of jewels are mesmerizing.

  The look on the woman’s face draws me in as the man kisses her cheek. Her beauty is haunting. Her want is palpable. My arms seem to reach forward of their own accord. “Want.”

  He laughs. “For you, Lulu, I’ll get it. I’ll buy you a Klimt.”

  I shake my head, whispering reverently, “No. I want that kiss.”

  He turns to me, his brow knitted, his voice curious and a little unsure. “You do?”

  “I want that. I feel so greedy, but yes, I do. I want that. I want a kiss like that.” I’m taking a dangerous step here. I’m toying with something terribly risky. But this admission feels so necessary. This painting is doing things to me. Things that only chocolate has done. It stirs up so much longing.

  “Have you had a kiss like that?” He looks as if it pains him to ask the question.

  I want to answer, but I don’t want to besmirch Tripp’s memory, even though I’m not his widow. I’m his ex-wife. I left him because he loved his mistress more than me. But I don’t want to compare his kisses. They’re over.

  An invisible thread pulls me closer to Leo. “It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter if I’ve had it.”

  His eyes hold mine, never wavering. I don’t know what’s happening
with us. But I want this moment, wholly. I want it to unfurl like a red carpet. I’m eager to find out where it leads.

  I want to be like Leonardo from 1820—to make a mark on history. On my history. And I want Leo, circa 2019.

  I move even closer, not caring about the people at the museum admiring the painting. They are a static haze to me. Leo’s as clear as the art. “I want that kiss.”

  “Then you should have it.” His voice is gravelly, rough. It’s strewn with hidden meaning, and I can read the clues.

  We both want whatever this strange new thing is that’s brewing between us.

  We want it, even if we’re afraid of it.

  An inexorable pull tugs us closer together, like a magnet seeking its opposite. “That painting. Maybe it’s kismet.”

  “You think so?” Another step.

  “Maybe it’s poetry.”

  He shakes his head, but he’s smiling. “You and your poetry.”

  “What about you? What do you want?”

  He licks his lips. “The same.”

  In front of the Klimt, in front of the crowd, Leo lifts his hand, curls it around the back of my head, and brings me close.

  My breath stutters. Electricity shoots through my body. My feet barely touch the ground as he lowers his head and brushes a chaste kiss.

  On my cheek.

  That’s not fair.

  That’s not what I want.

  But even so, my body tingles all over. All from a kiss on my cheek.

  And that kiss makes me want his lips.

  I raise my face, cup his jaw, and make the chaste kiss not so chaste, after all.

  He takes the baton and runs with it.

  He kisses me tenderly, brushing his mouth over mine in a gentle exploration, like he’s been dying to get to know my lips, but like he can take his time with them too.

  Like he can take all the time in the world.

  His kiss is full of longing as his lips sweep over mine, visiting the corners, traveling across the bow of them. Visiting everywhere.

  I’m buzzing, my entire body humming like the start of a song—a song that’ll build in seconds. As he takes his time,

  the desire in me roars well past the speed limit. I break with desire.

  It snaps me in two, and the hungry, ravenous half of me wins. My hand is on his face, so I bring him closer and crush my lips to his. I devour his mouth, taking him like he’s mine, like he belongs to me.

  He groans roughly, and it sounds both painful and intoxicating. I’m intoxicated as he deepens the kiss, his lips searching mine, finding me. Finding a new us. The kiss is his again as he draws me tight and consumes me.

  We kiss like we’re discovering a new land. Like we’re leaving our mark on this moment. And we are. Because this is the record I want from today.

  I don’t need photographic proof to know it happened.

  My mind is taking snapshots for me to look at later.

  A new tour group shuffles into the room, and we break the kiss, looking at each other like wow.

  But we also need to leave. We exit the museum through the gift shop, where Leo buys me a postcard of The Kiss then signs it.

  Leo 2019. The Met. Klimt Exhibit.

  In my mind, I add one more line.

  First kiss.

  Along with Ginny and Noah, we return to the starting place for the hunt, where the Heavenly Four, as we’ve dubbed ourselves, are in first place on the first day.

  Then we’re back at the office, working on chocolate and business deals.

  As I leave for my shop, ready to dive into my recipes for the afternoon, I spot Leo heading into a meeting.

  He doesn’t see me.

  He doesn’t even look like he’s here.

  He’s somewhere else, and I know that look.

  He’s lost in the past.

  And I want both to know what he’s thinking of and to erase our whole history.

  20

  Leo

  Two and a half years ago

  * * *

  Only one person knew.

  That was Dean, and he was a vault.

  I planned to take my feelings for her to the grave, especially since they were ancient history. Hell, they were ancient history well before Lulu asked me to help convince Tripp to go to rehab.

  And because those feelings were no longer a fact of my daily existence, I intended to keep them locked in a safe with an unbreakable combination, even when Tripp stumbled up the steps to my apartment late one night, unshaven, reeking of tequila and beer.

  “Just promise me one thing,” he said. Lulu had left him earlier that year, a few weeks after he’d earned himself a swift exodus from rehab for cheating on the program with Jose Cuervo. I suspected he and Jose had been cozying up tonight too.

  “What’s that?” I brewed a pot of coffee. It would do nothing for him. I knew that. It was an old wives’ tale. Nothing makes you un-drunk but time and stopping. But I made the coffee anyway.

  He slumped against the kitchen doorway. “Promise me—that when you finally go for it with her, you’ll tell me first.”

  A steel rod plunged through my spine. I stood straighter, my mind clanging, blood rushing between my ears. My head felt like a gong had rung inside it. How the hell did he know? I was iron. I was inscrutable.

  “With Amy?” I tossed out, since I’d just met a great gal named Amy and was thinking about asking her out. Please, God, let him be talking about Amy.

  He cracked up, scrubbing a hand over his chin. “Seriously?”

  “Seriously, what?” I was skilled in the practice of stoicism. I had a poker face to rival an entire Texas Hold’em tournament.

  “Leo, you’re my best friend. You’re like a brother to me. You think I don’t know?”

  “Don’t know what?” I poured the boiling water, and I’d never been so grateful for a distraction.

  He stepped into the kitchen, grabbing at the counter to steady himself.

  “How much did you drink tonight?”

  He waved a hand dismissively. “Hardly anything. I’m tough. I’m like that chick in Raiders of the Lost Ark. She can drink those big-ass dudes under the table. What’s her name?”

  “Marion. Her name is Marion.” I thrust a steaming mug at him, the words on the cup mocking me because it was a gift from her—But first, coffee. Simple, heartfelt, and true.

  “Marion! That’s it.”

  It was as if I’d given him the key to a treasure chest, and I’d hoped and prayed the distraction would work. “Drink your coffee. There’s a blanket on the couch. You can crash here.”

  He downed a hearty gulp then slapped the mug on the counter with a clatter. Brown liquid spilled over the side. “Sorry. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay. It’s just coffee.”

  “It’s not. It’s your favorite thing.”

  “We are not getting sentimental over coffee or counters.”

  “But what about Lulu?”

  “What about her?”

  He sighed, staring at me. “Leo. I figured it out a year ago. Stop avoiding me. I know.”

  “Know what?” My whole delicate balancing act threatened to topple.

  “I know you’re in love with Lulu. I realized it in rehab.”

  Slice me open with a serrated knife. “You’re ridiculous.”

  “It was all crystal clear. You know what else was crystal clear?” He patted my chest, his eyes forlorn but resolute at the same time. “You’re the better man. You’re the man she should have been with.”

  My gut twisted for fifty-million reasons. “Fuck off.”

  “No, I mean it. You have your shit together. I’m a mess.”

  “You could get your act together if you wanted.” That’s what irked me the most. Help was his alone to get.

  He shrugged. “Maybe. But listen, will you? Tell me first?”

  My jaw ticked angrily. I wanted to shout enough! But after all this time, after all these years, I wasn’t giving an inch, not after all he’d done,
and all he’d never done. “You’re ridiculous. I’m not in love with her.”

  “Just promise me.”

  I wasn’t letting him win this. He was drunk. I was sober. I had the upper hand of clarity, and I would wield it. I also had the truth on my side. “There’s nothing to promise you because I’m not in love with her.”

  It was the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but.

  He was a dog with a bone. “Promise me you’ll give me a heads-up before you go for it.”

  I poured some coffee and took a drink, hiding behind the mug. “This is an insane conversation, and it needs to end.”

  When he crashed on the couch a few minutes later, he didn’t let go. His voice was threadbare. “Promise me.”

  “Tripp.”

  “Just promise.”

  “There’s nothing to promise.”

  He sat up. I was parked in the chair. He grabbed my face sloppily. “Fucking promise.”

  I wanted to get away from him. Desperately. I let him win that battle. “Whatever. Yes. If it gets you to go to sleep.”

  He smiled. “I’ll sleep like a baby.”

  He curled to his side.

  We never spoke of that night again.

  21

  Leo

  Present Day

  * * *

  Running doesn’t work.

  Gorging on South American history doesn’t work.

  Furniture stripping doesn’t work.

  My mind is a depot, and two trains keep slamming into each other.

  One is the kiss.

  The other is a conversation with my dead best friend.

  The two can’t coexist.

  And I can’t talk to him again. I can’t ask him for permission. I can’t honor a promise I made late one night at my apartment a few months before he died, a promise I veiled as a simple excuse to get him to shut up. I can’t honor it because he took that away from me too, the night he got behind the wheel after too much to drink, drove too fast, and crashed his car into a tree.