Mrs. Archer expertly shifts the conversation back to Dylan, asking him how Brandon is doing with whatever charity organization his parents have him volunteering with.

With the attention off of me momentarily, I get the chance to study both Archers and the interior.

Dylan’s mother is so proper with every word she speaks and movement she makes, I don’t know how anyone speaks to her without feeling self-conscious. Seeing her makes me understand more of Dylan, mostly how rigid and deliberate he can be.

I wonder what parts of his personality are from his father, but I’m not sure I’ll get the chance to find out.

I’m taking in the beautifully decorated walls, with real light fixtures and bulbs that don’t look like they’ve been sitting in the garage for who knows how long, and I stop at one of the art pieces on the wall.

It’s not exactly like The Wait of the Human Heart from the gallery with James, but I think I recognize the style of layering paint and the way it makes me feel so isolated and comforted at the same time.

Even though it’s about one-tenth the size and drastically more simple, it’s no less powerful.

It’s much longer than it is tall, and it’s an expansive set of wings. I usually associate wings with angels or birds against blue or pink hues, but this work is the antithesis of that feeling. The majority of the painting is white with black slashes that are somehow violent against it.

I wait for a lull in their conversation, practically fidgeting with excitement as I do, until I get to ask Mrs. Archer, “Is that piece by Yarra DeLinch?”

She blinks, somewhat impressed by my question. “Why, yes it is. Art is also one of your interests?”

“Not really,” I admit. “I definitely have an appreciation for it, but I don’t think I’ve ever really felt like I ‘got it,’ if that makes sense. Well, except for this artist. I saw another work by her at a gallery in Shadyside.”

“I didn’t see that in your planner,” Dylan says tightly, addressing me directly for the first time since we sat down.

I give him a challenging look. “I didn’t realize you were studying my plans so closely.”

The remnants of my salad are traded for a round cut of steak and a few potatoes.

Dylan picks up his knife and fork without breaking our eye contact. “Well, if you had let me know, we could have arranged for a private viewing.”

Mrs. Archer takes in the confused expression on my face. “That gallery is one of mine, dear,” she says.

“One of yours?” I ask.

“My mother has dedicated her life to the arts,” Dylan explains. “Aside from running a non-profit dedicated to ensuring inner-city children are able to access music, writing, and other classes at no cost, she owns and curates a few galleries around the city.”

“That’s incredible.” I wish I had something more eloquent to say. “I couldn’t find anything about the artist online. Have you met her personally?”

“Quite a few times, but she’s very reserved. Refuses to come to the gallery openings or get recognized in the public eye, much to my disappointment. This piece was a gift. It’s one of the first works she did on canvas. She actually started out as a street artist but moved to canvas after she got caught defacing a billboard—”

“Mother, I doubt she is interested in the long, boring history of this,” Dylan says.

“Don’t interrupt me,” she scolds him quickly before turning to me again. “Are you interested?”

I nod enthusiastically, then Mrs. Archer tells me more about her work, and I follow her lead through the remainder of the courses.

Both Archers eat like judges on a television food show, delicately cutting and tasting each bite while holding a fork and a knife in each hand. In my house, the side of the fork is my preferred knife, but I adapt just fine.

Mrs. Archer insists that we have dessert and coffee in the library, and I don’t put up a fight at all. In fact, I’m more eager to see their collection of books than I am to hear more about Dylan’s childhood, some of which I recall from our early years at school together.

The library is stunning, but it’s the most cramped room I’ve come across so far. The walls are lined with books, and there are a number of armchairs and couches arranged on massive print rugs.

I relax enough to run my fingers along some of the spines as I read the words printed on them.

My eyes are drawn to the far corner of the room where a few books are housed in an antique display case. I gasp at some of the titles, and my hands start to shake when I see Pride and Prejudice.

It’s three volumes in a deep red tone, and they appear to be incredibly well preserved.

“Oh my god,” I cry out involuntarily. “Is this a first edition?”

I’m dying to touch these, but I know I can’t. Not only would it be entirely inappropriate for me to ask to do so, but I wouldn’t want to smudge them or, god forbid, damage them in some way.

It’s just like the painting at the gallery. I want to feel it in my hands, to cradle everything I’m feeling, but I can’t trust myself with something so precious.

Dylan is by my side, looking at the books with bored interest, as if he was glancing at today's newspaper. “Are you…okay?”

“Yes,” I say, but my throat is thick.

It’s incredible to think that a story written by someone who lived such a different life, more than two hundred years ago, still resonates to this day.

The chef brings in a tray of dark chocolates and coffees, and it’s almost hard to move myself back over to settle into conversation again with Dylan and his mother.

I try to mimic the way Mrs. Archer wipes her mouth with the corner of her napkin just so and then folds it back in on itself before it drops on her lap, but I fail and end up crumpling the cloth in my lap.

Each bite of this dinner and dessert is more delicious than the one before it. I’m flattered that Mrs. Archer asked me to join them, and it was an all-around positive experience. But I can’t help but still feel so damn hungry, and I’m embarrassed by it.

I don’t know if I’m used to bigger portions or if I was deceived by the presentation, but I’m curious as to how Dylan, someone who runs miles and burns a ton of calories each day, could be satisfied with that meal alone. I’m not one to count calories, but I wonder if he’s got a spare fridge stocked with more food in his room.

When we’re finished, I thank Mrs. Archer for inviting me to dinner and accept her offer in the not-too-distant future to accompany her to one of her galleries. I barely get a chance to turn back to wave before Dylan presses his hand on my back, pushing me along to his room.

I shrug him off.

I assume he’s annoyed at me for this entire charade, for weaseling myself into his personal life, and who knows what else, but when his father calls his name and I turn to look at him, I now understand what he wanted to spare me from.

Andrew Archer stands proudly at the other end of the hallway.

His spine is straight, his head is bald, and his eyes are pure aggression.

“Father,” Dylan says as the elder Archer takes a few slow, deliberate steps toward us.

He doesn’t say anything. Like a villain in a movie, he just moves forward and stares at the two of us.

It’s an uncomfortable silence, and I don’t open my mouth to break through it, unlike the brief comfort and confidence I found with Dylan’s mom.