Page 14 of Crystal Iris #1

Eleven

“If a man devotes himself to art, much evil is avoided that happens otherwise if one is idle.” – Albrecht Dürer

S omehow, I end up in the musical instruments section, my mind busy with all the questions I have for Hoyt. I need information. That’s what I’m doing. My invite has a purpose. I have a reason. I tell myself.

The collection includes flutes, whistles, panpipes, and other instruments spanning from ancient times to the late twentieth century.

I stop to study a cane flute with six finger holes.

Its surface is covered in engravings of a battle.

I wish I could hear its sound. Moving on, I find another cane instrument—a nineteenth-century Spanish panpipe, held together by strings.

Apparently, I’m drawn to music whenever I need an escape from my feelings.

When I reach the wooden drums, my heart begins to beat in rhythm. An English bass drum, adorned with white and blue ensigns, sits next to a mallet.

I check my phone—Hoyt will be here any minute. The rhythmic drumroll continues to beat in my chest until he arrives.

Hoyt seems a little out of place in the museum—he moves slowly, as if worried he might break something if he’s not careful. He’s dressed in jeans, a plaid button-down, and a corduroy jacket. His hair is tied in a man bun. He looks a bit wild in this city environment.

“Have you been here before?” I ask when he finds me in the sculpture gallery. I’m eyeing a sarcophagus adorned with relief carvings from the Hellenistic period when he walks over.

“First time,” he replies, slipping his hands into his pockets.

“Not an art fan?” I ask, trying not to let his... scent distract me. Is that cologne?

“Can’t say that I am. I grew up in the country. You?”

“I grew up here.” I gesture to the museum.

“Like your parents work here or something?”

“No, but we came here a lot.”

I detect something citrusy mixed with musk. I shake my head to distract myself.

“And you still come often?” he asks.

“Yes, when I need to be alone or... when I’m missing them.” I didn’t plan to be so open, but the words fly out.

“I’m sorry, have they... passed away?”

“My mom died when I was young. My dad decided he didn’t want to be a dad anymore and left.”

He stops in front of a Greek bronze sculpture of Apollo.

“Iris, I’m sorry,” he says, his green eyes locking onto mine.

“Thanks, I’m... I’m recovered, I think.” I look away, feeling a tightness in my chest.

He gives me a faint smile.

“I’m sorry about your dad, too.” Shit , that slipped out.

“And did your friend tell you that too?”

“No, I looked you up.”

“Hmm.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“What?”

“I’m glad you did.”

“Why? ”

“I like that you were… curious about me.”

My prism pulses, and my stomach turns.

We enter the painting gallery. Hoyt stops in front of Monet’s Fisherman’s Cottage on the Cliffs at Varengeville.

“Do you like it?” I ask, noticing he seems genuinely interested.

“I love the ocean. Living in the countryside, I don’t get to see it much.”

“My favorite part of this one is that there isn’t a path to the house. We’re left wondering…”

We move to the next wall.

“My mom loved this one,” I say, eyeing Portrait of a Dancer by Nicolas Lancret.

“See her turned foot? She’s a dancer. My mom liked to dance.

And this one,” I add, walking over to the next painting.

“My dad used to say it’s about a father.

The man is gently holding his daughter’s hand while yelling at his son, who is playing with a sword.

My dad used to joke that’s why he loved having a daughter.

I was sweet, like the fruit the girl’s carrying in the basket, and I’d never try to fight him.

I never looked up the true story. I like the one he made up. ”

“You do seem comfortable here.”

“I come here a lot. I’m an art history professor.”

“Oh, where do you teach?”

I can hear him breathing in the quiet room.

“Harvard.”

His eyes lock onto mine. “That’s impressive,” he says.

“Not really…” I shrug. “I know you took over your dad’s business. Do you like it?”

“I never had a choice. It was supposed to be my brother. He was the smart one... I always thought I’d just take care of the horses, but…”

I don’t say anything. I can’t say I know about the horses. I don’t want to say I know about his brother.

“When my brother died, I knew I’d have to take over one day.”

“I’m sorry about your brother. You said he had a prism too? ”

“Yeah, a rectangular one.”

The museum lights flicker. I glance up. It happens again.

“It must be the storm,” Hoyt says, eyeing another painting.

“What storm?” I ask, looking around—there are no windows here.

“It’s snowing,” he says casually.

“Is it? I didn’t know.” I pull out my phone.

There’s a text from Aaron: Don’t be stuck in the storm. Come home.

“I heard they’re expecting a foot of snow. That’s why I’m leaving tomorrow,” Hoyt says, glancing at my phone.

The realization that he’s leaving makes me feel sad. What am I doing?

“You came here knowing a storm was coming?” I ask.

“I wanted to see you.”

His words strike something deep inside me.

We walk in silence for a few minutes, observing Pacific wooden masks from the twentieth century.

“I should go home,” I say, trying to make sense of my actions.

“Why? Is your fiancé calling?”

“As a matter of fact, yes.”

He stops walking. “Are you going to tell me what you wanted to say at the party?”

“Can you tell me what you know about the prisms first?”

“Right. Let’s go somewhere… else. Too many people here.” There are only three other people nearby.

We turn a corner, where the tapestries hang on display, when the lights go out.

“The generator will kick in soon,” a guard says.

I’m not sure how close I am to Hoyt. I move an inch, and his hand brushes mine. He curses in pain.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

“Fuck, this hurts.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to. I can’t see. ”

“Why the fuck does it only hurt me now?” He sounds frustrated, and I wonder the same thing.

“I don’t know… I’m stepping back.”

The lights flicker back on. Hoyt is hunched over, and I see the red mark on his hand.

“Did I…?”

He nods.

“I’m sorry, Hoyt.” I hate the thought of hurting him.

“I’m okay. Maybe we should keep our... distances for now.”

“Of course.”

“This sucks,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

He doesn’t answer.

We take a seat by the window, and I watch the snow falling outside. How am I going to get home?

“What do you know about the prisms, Hoyt? Because I know nothing.”

“Honestly, I don’t know much either. Only that they can drive you crazy. It killed my brother.”

“What? How?” I wasn’t expecting this.

“It was my fault.”

To my surprise, he doesn’t shy away from my stare.

“What was?”

“That he died.”

I want to reach out, hold his hand. The pain in his eyes is almost palpable.

“What happened?”

“Almost no one knows this.”

“Because nobody knows about the prism?”

“And because I never felt... I feel like I can honestly talk to you.”

I know what he means, but I say, “I’m a stranger.”

“You don’t feel like one.”

He’s looking at me, really looking .

“I’m getting married, Hoyt.”

“We can be... friends.”

“Friends?”

He continues, “We found the prisms together. I was sixteen, Luke was seventeen. We fought about some stupid shit, who was better with a bow. The fight took a turn, as it often did with us, and we ended up all bloodied. I said something about him being a coward, that he’d never stand up to Dad.

An hour later, I was challenging him to open the safe.

We knew the combination—we’d watched Dad open it for years.

I thought we’d find money, maybe spend it on beer or something.

But instead, we found the two prisms. Mine was a necklace, and his was a bracelet.

I don’t even know what happened. As soon as we put them on, their lights turned on.

His emitted a green glow, and mine a dark blue.

As you probably know, there was no taking them off after that. ”

“What did your dad say?”

“He went crazy, yelling at us to take them off, saying we didn’t know what we’d done. But it was too late—he knew it, too.”

“And how did your brother...?”

“The prism drove him mad. He started hearing voices, couldn’t shut them out. He kept saying he couldn’t take it anymore. He died months later. Suicide.”

“I’m so sorry, Hoyt. It’s not your fault. You didn’t know.”

“Luke was the responsible one. He never wanted to step out of line. I was always pushing him. Dad made sure I knew it was my fault.”

“Hoyt.” I move a little closer, but he jumps back.

“Oh my God, I forgot. I’m sorry.”

“I hate this thing,” he says, staring out the window. “Every time I try to take it off, though, I feel... wrong. But I hate it.”

He looks outside again. “It’s getting crazy out there.”

“We should go before it gets worse,” I say, standing up.

“Can I call you?” he asks.

“Let’s keep it to text. Aaron can be… ”

“Jealous?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.”

Hoyt puts me in the first cab, and I watch him close the door. We needed more time ; there’s so much I still need to ask him. I want to know if his prism can make him travel like mine. I want to know more about his brother—what did his dad know about the prisms? Why did he keep them in a safe?

Somehow, I have to push all of this to the back of my mind. Aaron is waiting for me when I open the door.

“Where have you been?” He helps me take off my wet clothes.

“The museum.”

“I was worried.”

“Sorry, you know I get distracted there.”

“I ordered soup and a sandwich for you, but it’s cold by now.”

“Thank you. I’m hungry.”

All I want to do is tell Aaron I’m sorry.

The nicer he is to me, the worse I feel.

I’m in a deep hole now. I have to dig my way out, and I know exactly what will happen once I do.

Whatever I’m feeling for Hoyt, even if I barely know him, I’ve never felt with Aaron.

I wish I did. And when it’s time to tell him, I know I’m going to lose my best friend too.

I eat in front of the TV while Aaron watches the news.

I spend the evening checking my phone, hoping Hoyt has texted me. He hasn’t. How can I be so drawn to a guy I barely know? Especially one who’s known for dating someone new every week? I need to get my focus back. I’m going back to work in the morning.