Page 34

“A little.”

“Why?”

I consider the question. “You don’t advertise much about yourself.”

“That’s deliberate.”

I open the book and turn a few pages.

“I liked Vienna. Prague too. I spent a long weekend there after I finished my first year in London.”

Ross leans closer to see the page.

“Which did you prefer?”

“Prague.”

“Why?”

“It felt less polished.” I glance at him.

“More lived in.”

He nods slowly. “I can see that.”

We keep talking, drifting from cities to architecture, from architecture to collections we’ve seen and the ones we’d go back to. He surprises me more than once. He knows enough to have opinions without needing to prove he knows them.

At some point, I sit on the edge of one of the low tables with the book still open in my lap. Ross rests against the opposite side, glass in hand.

“You could’ve done almost anything with your degree,” he says.

“Why this version of it?”

I know what he means this time.

“Because I wanted to know I was good enough to be here,” I say.

Ross’s expression stills. I continue before I can soften it.

“Not because I knew someone. Not because someone liked the way I looked at a dinner or decided I was charming enough to keep around. I wanted the work to hold up without me attached to it.”

He watches me quietly.

“I don’t want to be impressive for my age,” I add.

“I want to be good.”

“You are.”

The answer comes without hesitation. I look down at the book.

Ross takes a sip of whisky. “You don’t need me to tell you that.”

“No.”

“But you still wanted to hear it.”

I smile faintly. “Maybe.”