This isn’t the first time that James has had a girlfriend, and it likely wouldn’t be the last.

“Of course not,” I say. “Well, I’m not mad that you have a girlfriend, but I don’t know why you didn’t tell me.”

He takes one of my hands in his. “I don’t know why either,” he admits.

I focus on swallowing the dregs of my coffee.

“Let’s go wander around a little more,” I suggest. “I think I saw an art gallery next door that looked interesting.”

James groans. “I thought you promised to never drag me to a museum again.”

During our sophomore year, we went to one of the art museums downtown, and he made it clear how boring and uninteresting it was, making fun of the pieces instead of appreciating them.

Only a few of his jokes were funny.

“It’s a gallery,” I emphasize. “It’s different.”

I drag him by the hand until we cross the threshold.

We’re greeted at the front desk and handed booklets with a little more detail on the collection. We’re informed that instead of one showing by one artist, the current collection is from many different artists around the city, and all profits from the sales will be donated to an art charity.

It’s not an overly large space, but there’s a lot in it.

Thankfully, James and I dropped our hold on each other when we started mulling around, but I can practically feel his impatience radiating toward me from a few paintings over.

I take my time to appreciate just how different each item is. The pieces are exquisite, and it makes me wish I knew more about art than I do.

Aside from a sideline appreciation, I can't offer much else.

I stop at a painting that is perhaps the most unique piece I’ve ever laid eyes on—it’s a monstrosity, maybe eight feet tall and a few feet wider.

It’s a depiction of a human heart. It’s styled like street art, but it’s crafted beautifully. I can’t tell if the layers are actually spray paint or if the artist was so meticulous about the coloring that it somehow just looks like it.

The main cavity of the heart is like a shiny red ruby, reflecting brilliantly with the light at even the slightest movement of my head. The ventricles have an industrial feel to them, as if they’re drain pipes and gears without being actually and obviously depicted that way.

I wish I could zoom in on the image to see how many pixels of gray, white, and blue are incorporated into the black abyss of the background, which contrasts the rest of the painting so brutally.

I take a step back, wanting to appreciate the work at a different angle, and I gasp when I realize that the heart itself, so powerful at first glance, is actually quite damaged. I can see the bruising along the bottom and dotted along the right ventricle.

My fingers itch to touch it, to feel the pain that the artist bravely put on display in this work and to somehow help it heal. Although I’m not a gallery regular, I know that’s not permitted.

Art is meant to be admired and appreciated in a way that isn’t disturbed by the chaos of humans, whether it be the oils from our hands or the clumsiness in damaging something so precious.

No matter how deeply you think you connect with a piece, it’s not yours to claim.

Unless you have the cash for it, I suppose.

I flip through the program. While most pieces have details on the artist and a paragraph of notes about the piece, its origins, and a few other details, all I get on this one is:

The Wait of the Human Heart

Yarra DeLinch

Create Date and Location Undisclosed

“This thing is seven thousand dollars?” James exclaims in my ear.

I was so lost in the painting I didn’t hear him approach or notice he was looking over my shoulder.

“What does it even mean?”

He’s looking at the same canvas, materials, lines, and work that I am, but we’re somehow seeing something completely different.

“I think it’s up for interpretation,” I tell him, purposely being a little coy.

James blinks and rubs the back of his neck. “Seems pretty straightforward to me. Someone got bored and decided to go through a whole lot of paint.”

I look around, thankful that no one else can hear how crass and disrespectful he’s being.

“Just because you don’t necessarily understand something doesn’t mean you can’t appreciate its beauty,” I scold as quietly as I can.

Every second I stand in front of this painting, I’m more intrigued.

James shifts on his feet, a slight movement that voices his impatience with my dawdling without him even having to open his mouth.

It’s distracting me enough that I can’t fall wholeheartedly into the feelings this painting evokes, so I give in.

“Come on,” I sigh. “We can go.”

He perks up instantly.

I look at the painting one more time, longingly, before we head out.

Things are back to normal on the ride home and even more so when we arrive. My mom greets us when he pulls up and tries to get him to come over for dinner, but he blushes and says he has plans.

For the rest of the weekend, it’s just me, my parents, my homework, and my non-existent essay. Despite how it started, overall it’s a good weekend—especially when my mom burns the heck out of her casserole on Sunday night and we order pizza instead.

Occasionally, I wonder what Dylan’s plans are for the weekend, and I even consider texting him to make sure he was staying on top of his study schedule I created for him, but I ultimately decide I’d rather face him in person tomorrow.

Scolding over text messages isn’t a great look for anyone.

I’m antsy through the first few classes in the morning. I don’t think I take a full inhale until I step in Miss Delway’s room and see Dylan sitting there with the same bored look on his face he usually has.

He’s cordial and a little distant, spending most of his time ignoring my attempts to stray from anything that’s not directly related to the assignment we’re working on.

It continues like this for the rest of the week.

I watch him at every opportunity I can. But it’s limited to class, lunch, and his away meet at a nearby school on Wednesday.

On Thursday, I follow him to the cafeteria and finally snap when he idles at the salad bar. “Are you just going to keep ignoring me, or are we going to get back to whatever we were doing pre-parking lot?”

A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, but he seems very interested in the salad dressing options in front of him. “How about tonight?”

I open my mouth and close it again. I hadn’t expected his outright agreement.

“Okay,” I agree. “Books & Beans after practice?”

“No practice today.”

“Really?”

He cocks an eyebrow like he’s surprised I don’t already have this information. “Just at-home stretching. Coach’s reward after slaughtering the other team yesterday.”

“Oh.”

“But I left my computer at home,” Dylan adds. “Let’s just go there to do the work.”

“Go to your house?” I stutter.

He looks at me like I’m a complete idiot. “Is that an issue?”

“No,” I say quickly as I reel.