Zephyr shook his head, clearly irritated with both of us, and led the way forward, up the staircase that led to the galleries. I wished he wasn’t walking so fast—I wanted to take everything in.
There was a gallery I’d always loved on the first floor that had a lot of gems and jewelry, and I wondered suddenly if there was any way I could break off and just check it out without looking like I was planning a heist. I would have loved to wander through without crowds of people pressing up behind me for a better look.…
“This is really something,” Matty said, climbing the stairs, and I followed, not as embarrassed by my halting gait now that he knew the reason why and I no longer had to try and hide it.
“I know,” I said, looking around, as we walked up the wide, empty marble staircase. If Kat was here, she would have pulled me into doing the dance we’d done on the stairs in Anything Goes our sophomore year, I just knew it.
Where was Kat right now? Had she been able to get around okay? Was she regretting the things she’d said to me, like I was regretting what I’d said to her?
We reached the top of the stairs, the huge Triumph of Marius looming large ahead of us. Zephyr zipped us through the gallery—there were security guards in every gallery, and one that seemed to be especially assigned to us walking behind me—and I was just trying to see as much as I could, because when was this going to happen again? I wasn’t even sure why it was happening now, so there was no way I’d ever be able to re-create it.
We were walking fast, down the hallway that always had photography exhibits displayed, and I wanted to stop, and look at everything I could, but Zephyr was practically running, and I was just doing my best to keep up. I heard Matty ask Zephyr a question about the shoot as we hung a right, and then we were in the part of the museum I knew best, because it had gallery after gallery of impressionists—my favorite.
I was about to ask what Margaux was doing here—styling or shooting—just as we came to a stop in front of a gallery that, unlike the others, was not empty. In the middle of all the Renoirs and Manets and Monets and van Goghs, there was a photo shoot going on. Dressed in what looked vaguely like a school uniform, but was undoubtedly designer, was a model I recognized immediately, as she’d been on magazine covers and national campaigns and seemed to date a roving collection of sad-faced drummers—Kaya, no last name necessary. She was perched on what looked like an instrument case, and sitting next to her was a guy so gorgeous he could only also be a model, resting his elbows on a violin case on his lap and gazing at the camera. There was a photographer circling them, the camera clicking, and lights and round silver discs to bounce light everywhere.
It was a photo shoot at the Met, and somehow I was there for it. It was so outside my normal Friday night—so beyond what I’d thought tonight would be—that for a moment I just pulled Brad closer to me, drinking it all in, not entirely sure how I’d ended up here.
“Okay, hold,” the photographer said, lowering her camera and squinting into the viewfinder. She walked over to where a table had been set up by one of the benches—and a Picasso—with laptops on it, and people were sitting around it, peering at the screens. The models immediately relaxed, and Kaya said something that made the guy laugh. There was something in their clothes and props that looked… familiar somehow? Even though I wasn’t sure how that was possible.
“Matty?” We both looked over, and from the other side of the room, a brunette stepped forward—Margaux. A second later, she was running over to us in a topknotted blur. She launched herself at Matty, giving him a bear hug, then stepped back and looked at me, smiling in a wide-open way. “Stephanie!” she said. “And Brad, my darling!” She cuddled his face, and Brad turned his head to the side, like he was telling her where she should really be scratching him. “You’re here! This is so great.”
“It’s Stevie,” Matty corrected, nodding at me, and Margaux smiled even wider.