The Getty Museum I arrived at was, of course, closed. My car sat parked just outside, waiting for further instructions. To make sure he's even here, did he really expect me to get out and check if one of his sports cars was in the lot? There was no way I was walking the shoulder of this highway to find out. Maybe because it was so early, I was more irritable than usual. Every five seconds, I checked my phone for a new notification from him. Then a small man in a hazard vest appeared at my passenger-side window, nearly scaring me to death.
"Hello. Name, please," he said, gesturing for me to roll the window down.
"Marcie Andrews," I answered hesitantly, cracking it open.
"Pull forward, please. Thank you."
Strange as this trip was, I couldn't complain. I loved art. I'd even put that on the questionnaire Ms. Fallon sent me. If business had to be conducted at midnight at the Getty, then so be it. Three sharply dressed staff greeted me after I parked underground, guiding me upstairs toward security clearance. Rushed good mornings came from others in passing, their urgency as they walked around striking. As we all boarded the tram up to the museum perched in the hills, I tried to spot the luxury houses dotting the ridges. Unfortunately, it's too dark.
My gaze drifted instead to the window's reflection allowing me to see the staff behind. One of the staff members walked over to the front—grinning ear to ear—as he pulled out a sparkly green gift bag. He then handed it to me.
"How cute—it's a plushie spider. Thank you!"
I adored spiders. If I could turn into any creature, it would be one of them—Mother Nature's most fascinating designers.
When the tram released us, three of us headed toward the main building while two staff veered off to the right. It was uncanny being here with no other visitors. Every step echoed against stone. The only times I'd been inside massive buildings like this while pretty much alone was years ago, at my cleaning job. Now I was being escorted through one as though I were a celebrity.
"Ma'am?" A petite woman stopped me at the gift shop. "Do you see anything you like?"
"Of course! There are so many nice things," I exclaimed, stepping inside.
"Like . . . ?"
"Oh, well . . . this artsy umbrella. Pretty much all the postcards. This Renaissance art book is beautiful, and—oh, this purse! I love the details and—"
I cut myself short when I realized the staff were shoving the items into shopping bags.
"Wait, I don't want to–"
"You said which book you liked?" one of them piped up.
"The Renaissance one. But I don't want to buy this, I—"
"Oh, sorry." She smiled. "I forgot to clarify. At no expense, you can shop around. Anything you wish to have, let us know."
What?!
I froze, staring at them as if I hadn't heard correctly.
Am I dreaming? This is a dream come true! To do this at the Getty—I can't believe it.!
I pinched my arm, rubbed my forehead.
"I'm sorry—I don't fully understand. Actually, put it all back, please," I stammered out in case there's some mistake and I end up with a $200 bill.
They set the bags down, mirroring my confusion. Then someone's phone alarm went off, and suddenly panic rippled between them.
I was rushed out through the back doors, into the furniture gallery across from the museum's central courtyard. Whatever thoughts I had about the gift shop evaporated when I saw the walkway ahead, lined with glowing candles.
I must be in a fever dream. Why is all of this borderline—romantic?
Inside the French-decorated rooms of the gallery, I was left alone. A tall figure stood in the distance, back turned, hands tucked into his pockets. The sound of my heels echoed closer and I know he can hear me approaching, but he didn't move.
His suit caught my eye first—vibrant green, almost too bold. That alone told me it couldn't be Mr. Fabrizi. He'd never wear something like that. He wouldn't even touch it. But then he turned, just enough for me to see his side profile. Paler than usual; no fake orange tanning residue. The hair not slicked straight but left poofy, wavy.
Who is this person?
And then, when he finally faced me fully, I saw his mother's resemblance stamped across his features.
"Like the look?" he asked.
I was so stunned I actually stepped back. If I said no, I'd be lying. In some alternate universe, this version of him would be more attractive—if his personality had transformed along with the wardrobe. I didn't miss the fact that he was wearing my favorite color. Something must have happened. He must have accidentally signed some papers that might jeopardize my future. And now, he bet he's trying to soften the blow before telling me.
We stared at each other. He gave no clues.
"Are you ready?" he asked at last, breaking the silence.
Then, without warning, he took my hand and wrapped it around his arm as if escorting me. I was too stunned to speak.
What does he want from my hand? Is he sick—or unsteady?
But there was another problem, one I didn't want to acknowledge: my heart fluttered at his touch. He must have noticed my shift, because he stopped and looked at me.
"I thought you liked wrapping your hand around someone's arm?"
Yes. When I'm on an actual date.
"I do," I stammered, glancing at my hand clutched around his arm in its peculiar position. "But—"
"Okay, so which exhibit first?"
I'm at a loss of words that I simply point to the gardens down below and let his body tug me along.