and yet … kind of nice.
I slide into the warm, buttery leather and he makes his way to the driver’s side. The radio plays some indie rock station on low and the car smells like new leather with a hint of clean soap and aftershave.
“What’s the plan?” I ask when he climbs in.
“You’ll find out in about fifteen minutes,” he says, buckling in and checking his mirrors. “You warm enough? Music okay?”
“I am. And it is.” I study him from my periphery as we drive south. If I had to guess, we’re headed downtown.
The fabric of his navy cashmere sweater strains against his muscles as he drives and the silver watch on his left hand glints with each passing streetlamp. The car glides from street to street, the ride easy and smooth, and he drives like a man who isn’t in any kind of rush—a man who has the entire night ahead of him and wants to savor every moment.
“What’d you do last night?” I ask.
“Had to go to Laguna Cove for a family dinner,” he says.
“Is that where you’re from?”
“It is.” He studies the road ahead, coming to a gentle stop at the next light.
“Isn’t that a couple hours from here?”
Talon nods.
“You didn’t want to stay the weekend?” I ask.
He laughs through his nose. “You don’t know my family. An hour-long dinner with them is about as much as I can take.”
I have to admit, I’m surprised.
Talon has always projected a certain image to me and that image isn’t the kind I typically associate with dysfunctional families. Everything about him screams privilege and familial support.
“What’d you do last night?” he asks.
“Went to this spoken word poetry slam thing at Café Baudelaire with a couple girls from my Interior Lighting class,” I say. “First time going to one of those and I have to say … it’ll probably be my last.”
He laughs.
“I’m all about the art scene, but how do people keep a straight face when they’re up there? This guy had this whole poem about losing his beloved … stick bug.”
“Stick bug?”
“Yes. Stick bug,” I say. “He had tears in his eyes and everything. I mean, I don’t mean to judge. I’m just saying I can’t relate and it’s not my thing.”
“It’s good to try new things,” Talon says, glancing at me as he flicks on his turn signal.
A few minutes later, he pulls into a parallel parking spot in front of a massive downtown building, one I’ve never seen in my life since I rarely venture off campus.
“We’re here,” he says before climbing out.
I don’t wait for him to get my door, though I’m sure he would. I meet him on the sidewalk.
“What’s this?” I ask as we head to a series of glass doors so dark you can’t see in.
“It’s an art exhibit,” he says, placing his hand on the small of my back and guiding me inside.
We step into a wide-open space, nothing but white walls and white pillars and patrons from all walks of life making their way between stationed exhibits. Talon hands two tickets to a woman dressed in black standing behind a small podium, and then he swipes a couple of champagne glasses from a passing server’s tray.
“For you.” He hands me one of the flutes before scanning the room. “They hold this every year. Most of the time I come alone.”
I’m confused.
And also impressed.
“I never thought of you as an art guy,” I say. Taking a closer look around, I realize this isn’t just art. This is some kind of architecture-art hybrid exhibit. Everything around us has to do with buildings and living spaces.
We pass a hanging banner and I stop in my tracks when I read the words: WELCOME TO THE 20th ANNUAL GOLD-HARRIS EXHIBIT.
Gold-Harris is a world-renowned local architectural firm, one we studied extensively a couple of years back in one of my design classes.
“Are you related to Theodore Gold?” I ask.
Talon takes a sip, his lips pressing flat. “Was. Was related.”
I don’t understand.
“He was my father,” he says. “He died when I was six.”
For a moment, I’m not sure I heard him correctly, so I replay his words in my head. I’m sure to anyone else, this revelation would be no big deal, but he might as well have just told me he’s architecture royalty.
“Oh, my goodness.” I close my gaping mouth and try to show some respect. “I had no idea.”
I didn’t even know Gold had passed. They talked about his work in my class—but they never talked