Page 150 of ClickBack

“Maybe I looked lost.”

“You were arguing with the painting.”

“I was being thorough.”

This one makes me stop. The face is nearly obscured, but a hand lies clear against a dark table. The fingers are relaxed. There is something in that small amount of ease that makes the rest of the painting feel less lonely.

I stand there until people need to pass behind us. Jarrett moves with me, his hand settling at my back.

“What do you see?” he asks.

“Somebody who might be all right if people leave her alone for a little while.”

He studies the canvas. “I can see that.”

“Is that what you saw?”

“No.”

“What did you see?”

“Somebody waiting.”

I look again. Now I can see that, too.

We stay through the conversation with the artist. Jarrett listens closely when she talks about the first painting she sold and the one she wishes she had kept. He asks a question about working on several pieces at once. I know the way he listens when basketball is being discussed. Here, he is interested without already knowing what answer he wants.

Afterward, we make our way past a table where children are painting squares for a larger piece. A little girl with purple fingers is trying to touch her father’s trousers. He catches both her wrists while she laughs so hard she can barely stand.

“I used to put Rae in one of Byron’s old shirts when she painted,” I say. “Then he complained because she chose one he still wore.”

“Did you know it wasn’t an old one?”

“I knew it looked better with the paint.”

Jarrett laughs, and the father looks over in the exhausted hope that one of us might help. I find the wipes on the table and hand him the package. He thanks me with the urgency of a man saving a pair of pants.

When we get back into the SUV, Graves asks if we found anything.

Jarrett lifts the wrapped print. “For Mom.”

“What’d she do?”

“Raised me.”

“Then you owe her a bigger one.”

I laugh. Jarrett looks at me, wounded enough to be theatrical, and I place my hand on his knee in apology.

He covers it with his. “Keep laughing. We haven’t ordered dinner yet.”

At the Four Seasons, the city spreads beneath the restaurant windows in a way that makes familiar streets difficult to follow. I find one building, lose another, then stop trying to trace my way home.

Jarrett watches me take it in before we sit.

“Different from my place?”

“Your place has better company.”