Page 16 of Exposed

A nearby visitor glances at me, a middle-aged woman. “Honey, you’re at the Met.Starry Nightis at the MOMA, the Museum of Modern Art. Just down the road a bit, in midtown.”

I thank the woman and return to the bench in front of the Sargent.

Thinking.

I have memories, distinct memories of being here with you, and you wheeled me from this to theStarry Night.

But how can that be? They aren’t at the same museum.

I’ve distracted myself well enough, thankfully. I am no longer seeing over and over Rachel with you, your eyes on mine, no longer feeling my arousal and disgust and sense of betrayal.

I have pushed those emotions down, deep down where I won’t have to deal with them just yet.

And then I feel you.

“I knew I’d find you here.” Your voice is quiet, like the rumble of a subway train below the streets.

“I have nothing to say to you.” I do not look at you. Scoot to my left so there is a foot of space between us.

“Too bad. I have a lot to say to you.”

“That would be new.”

A sigh. “X, you don’t understand—”

“If you say that to meonemorefuckingtime, I will scream,” I hiss.

I like cursing. It makes me feel powerful and free.

“Why did you spy on me?”

“I do not know. I wish I hadn’t, yet also I am glad I did.” I struggle to breathe past the subtle power of your cologne and your presence. “I understand now what I mean to you.”

“You mean more to me than you can possibly comprehend, X.”

“Which is why you never even bother to take off your clothes when you’re with me? Why you never stay with me, afterward? Why you treat me like I’m... delicate?”

“What, X? You want me to do that shit to you?” You say this a little too loud, glance around, and lower your voice so it is barely audible. “You want me to treat you like I treat the girls? You want me to come on your face? You want me to pull your hair and hurt you? Is that what you want, X?”

I shake my head. “I don’t know. I don’t know if I want that. I don’t know, Caleb! I just know, watching you with her, I felt jealous. And angry. I felt... as if you enjoy her more than you do me. I don’t want to be just another girl among many for you.”

“I can’t give you what you’re asking for, X. You don’t—I know you hate it when I say this, and I’m sorry, but you really don’t understand.”

I groan in frustration, loudly enough that other visitors stop and stare at me. “Then help me understand!”

“How, X? What am I supposed to say to you?”

“The truth?”

“What is the truth? The truth about what?”

“About me? About us? Why you keep me locked up in that fucking tower like... like Rapunzel.”

You do not answer for a long time, staring at the Sargent painting for which I am named. “How many hours have we both sat in this spot, staring at this painting?”

Apropos of nothing, that. But also... relevant. I am here of my own volition.

“Many indeed.” I hesitate, and then continue. “My memories are faulty, it seems. I distinctly remember being here, in the wheelchair, with you. Looking at the Sargent, and then you’d push me through the museum and we’d look at the Van Gogh together. Irememberthis, Caleb. As clearly as I am standing here, I can feel it, see it. But now that I’m actually here, I’ve discovered that what I remember isn’t possible. Because the Van Gogh is at a different museum entirely. And I... I don’t understand. How can I remember something falsely?”