Page 11 of The Boy Next Door

When the weather isn't too cold, the art museum here stays open later once a week. With free admission, it's the only time most people view the respectable art collection from around the world.

Yet I can't believe we're standing here in the grand entryway that leads to carefully preserved rooms and works of art.

"Seriously? Here?" I follow as Hunter strolls into a Baroque exhibit. "Seriously?"

"Can you name an artist?"

"Does Banksy count?"

"We really don't have to stay."

He tosses me an easy smile. "You brought me to the bar because it was my element. Why not check out yours?"

Is this his version of apologizing? It's... sweet, except him being bored stiff won't do me any favors. I'll be remembered as his worst date ever.

"Are there any artists you like?" I wonder. "Besides Banksy?"

"Sure. Uh, what's his name? Degas? Matisse... maybe one of the ninja turtles?"

This doesn't sound promising.

"Whoever he is, I respect him," Hunter asserts, leading us to a new exhibit.

"Are we lost?"

"No, not at all... I'm giving you a tour. Isn't that what you do at museums?"

“Not if you don’t know anything about art. You go on tours. You don’t give them.”

“Nah, that doesn’t sound right.” He claps his hands. "Gather around to learn about art!"

While not especially serious, a few people listen and come closer to him. He seems genuinely surprised before schooling his expression. "Okay, I can do this."

"You don't have to." I'm not eager to be humiliated in front of these strangers.

"Hey, there's the guy I'm looking for." He claps again. "This way, tour group."

Oh god, is this happening? I'm too busy staring at Hunter and wishing he stops this madness that I barely take in our surroundings until we reach the end of this floor.

We're in a section where only a few paintings are displayed.

They're giant, filling the space as they stretch wide, a world of purple, blue, and green. ..

Dear Lord. Hunter definitely got lost and yet isn't stopping his spontaneous freaking art tour.

"Here you'll notice," he begins with a commanding voice that turns into a mutter. "Jesus, this is big. Where's the sign?"

"Monet's Water Lilies," I volunteer. "Now stop this insanity."

"This is the guy," he tells me, then waves everybody else forward. "Don't be shy, come check out the art."

Hunter proceeds to invent details I studiously ignore so I don't fret over the shameless inaccuracies. The lilies and their watery surroundings are painted in cool colors, so my face is the reddest thing here.

I just watch him. He looks calm, in control. Like always. Even when talking to a room of people and lying his ass off.

But is he joking? This is really where he meant to lead me?

"You like water lilies?" I ask when he pauses.

"Good question, tour participant." He winks at me, telling the audience, "Nope. I don't."

"Then why are we here?"

"Okay, here's what you need to know. This Monet guy created about a billion paintings of water lilies. Like, waaaaay more water lilies than anyone needs to paint."

"I thought you were a fan," I remind.

"Well, you gotta understand that, even in his time, I'm guessing nobody clamored for gigantic-ass water lily art.

And doing all this?" He whistles. "Not cheap.

People probably begged him to paint anything else, yet here he comes with pond after pond and water lily after water lily.

Speaking as somebody who's done the starving artist thing—" he clears his throat "—it's pretty impressive. "

"Is it?"

"Yeah, it's badass. He painted what he wanted, no matter what the critics, his parents, or anybody thought. And after these projects here, you know what he painted next?"

A girl near the front raises a timid hand. "Some water lilies?"

Hunter nods. "Some goddamn water lilies."

As people ask questions, I keep watching him. I've known Hunter for years. This spectacle isn't totally out of character for the elder Cruse brother. He's stubborn, impulsive, and fearless.

But at the same time, the guy I'm with right now is also someone I never saw before. It’s hard to look away.

~

After the museum, we get tacos and sit on Hunter's car in the parking lot. It's kinda quiet. Kinda weird. Kinda nice.

"Does the art museum count as a walk on the wild side for you?" I wonder.

"Eh, coming home is my version of wild. This is my chance to... I'm not sure yet. But this is the only time I've ever been here without dying to leave."

I'm oddly touched. He probably doesn't share with many people.

"The first time I thought about dropping out of high school and moving out to Cali to start a band? Musta been fourteen."

"What, really?" Good thing I'm not eating or I'd choke.

"Wasn't really gonna do it," he mutters around a mouthful.

"Of course not."

"Not then. Next year when I found a band?" He shrugs. "I basically had one foot out the door ever since."

"You stayed in school." At least for a while.

"Dad had his own ideas." He looks up at the night sky as he speaks. "The old man yelled, he threatened, he begged. And finally, he bribed me with new drums and some wheels to finish school. You wanna know the crazy part?"

"Besides you wanting to drop out of school as a sophomore?"

"Dad was actually right." He sounds amazed.

"Duh." I clear my throat and try again. "Duh."

He flicks a piece of lettuce at me.

"Did you graduate?" I ask, preparing for more flying vegetables. "You weren't here for graduation."

I remember because his dad threw a golf club into the pond before realizing it was a precious five iron or something with a heavy putter that sank to the bottom. He paid Dylan and me one hundred dollars to fish it out.

"Well, the other guys were a year older." There's movement on the car. Is he fidgeting? "If they were waiting on my ass too long, they coulda replaced me with another drummer..."

The puzzle pieces slot together.

"Are you saying you graduated early?"

"Not a full year!" he shouts, ducking his head and concentrating on his food. "A little early, yeah. I'm not sure all the summer school was worth it, though the rewards were nice. Altogether, Wombat Soup had five, not exactly good years, but still. Five years together is pretty good."

"Are you sad it's over?"

"Nah... I decided to quit." He shoves the rest of his food into his mouth, ending the conversation.

The silence between us feels loaded. Is it heavy or merely quiet? Did he share with me because he wanted to or because he felt bad about earlier?

Either way, he did share. And it feels...

"Enough about me. Tell me, Sam, do you still have terrible taste in music?"

"What's the point of singing if you can't understand a single word?" I complain.

"Ha, honestly? I only played so much metal around you because you made the funniest faces."

"The rest wasn't much better!"

"Whatever, you listen to Alvin and the Chipmunks."

"I was ten!"

The heaviness lifts as we joke around and hang out. It's weird we share a history. We technically grew up together. Yet he's also a stranger. We aren't catching up so much as getting to know each other for the first time.

As he drives me home, there's only one question on my mind. Hint, it's not 'what am I thinking?' Or 'am I really so easily charmed after his rudeness?' Or even 'what about Dylan?'

Nope. It's this: is he going to kiss me goodnight?