“Good point.” He shoveled in the last of his eggs, then slid off the stool to go scrape the dregs from the pan to his plate. “You’re an exceptionally gorgeous woman with astounding acrobatic abilities in the sack. You have good taste in movies, terrible taste in candy, and you make a damn good Manhattan, thanks to my incredible teaching, of course.”

“Thank you,” I said graciously. “You’re wrong about Twizzlers. But I love you anyway.”

“As you should. But as for Evan Black …” He trailed off, shaking his head regretfully. “He’s an asshole who doesn’t keep his promises.”

“No, he’s not,” I said.

Flynn burst out laughing. “Oh, man. You really do have it bad.”

I sighed. Because I did. I really did.

Flynn took the last bite of his sausage, then glanced at my mostly untouched plate.

“I’m eating,” I said, shoveling a huge forkful of hash browns into my mouth. “Where are we going this week?” I asked, thumbing my nose at etiquette and talking with my mouth full.

Our weekly museum jaunts had started last May on the very day that we’d moved in together after I’d graduated from Northwestern. Before that, I’d lived on campus and Flynn had kept his tiny bedroom in the groundskeeper’s quarters that came with his father’s job on the massive Kenilworth estate just a few blocks from my uncle Jahn.

Flynn’s father, who rarely left his world of flowers and trees and shrubs, had taken the train into the city the day we moved into the apartment. He’d looked around the room, nodded approval, then pulled his son into a bear hug. I’m pretty sure there were tears in his eyes.

I’d felt a knot of jealousy curve in my belly. The neighborhood was safe and affluent to satisfy my parents’ concerns, but we’d taken the cheapest one bedroom we could find. We’d both wanted to pay our own way, and my starting salary at HJH&A wasn’t exactly impressive. Not that Flynn was doing much better between tending bar and working as a flight attendant. But we figured that we’d make do with me in the bedroom and Flynn in the living room—and the Oak Street Beach just a short bike ride away.

While the setup might have made Flynn’s dad proud, it had only frustrated my father, who made it more than clear that he’d happily buy me a condo if I would just say the word.

I remained silent.

Pops, as Flynn’s father liked to be called, had taken us out to breakfast, then led us to the Red Line. We’d asked no questions, just gone with him until we reached the stop at Roosevelt. Then he walked us to the museum campus, bought a hotdog from a vendor, and pointed to the Field Museum of Natural History. “Whenever you two have a day off,” he said. “Here, there,” he added, indicating the aquarium. “The Art Institute, one of those boat rides that shows you all the buildings. You explore. You learn. You see the world that you’re part of and you live in it. You understand me?” He poked Flynn in the chest. “That goes double for you. The opportunities you have flying all over the country. All over the world.” He sniffed, then pulled out a handkerchief and blew his nose loudly. “If only your mother could see you.”

Flynn eyed me sideways, his expression a little amused and a little embarrassed. But I liked the idea of living in the world. Especially since I sometimes feared that I’d forgotten how to do that.

Now Flynn started the dishwasher before we headed toward the door. “Let’s do the aquarium this week.”

“How about the Art Institute?”

“We went there last week.”

I shrugged.

He eyed me sideways. “If you already knew where you wanted to go, why’d you ask me?”

“An overabundance of politeness?”

“Let me guess. The windows.”

I took his hand and smiled happily. “See how well you know me?”

I feel about the Chagall windows the way some people feel about Notre Dame or the National Cathedral or Westminster Abbey. There is something about the experience of looking at that stained glass, with the oddly fractured images, so many of which seem to have been caught mid-flight, that makes my soul want to soar.

I’d discovered them by accident one day when I’d gotten turned around trying to find the cafe, and I’d stood there, no longer hungry, and just watched the light move across the vibrant, vital blue.

I knew that Flynn didn’t get my fascination. Monet, Rembrandt, even Ivan Albright’s dark and brooding images were the things that captured his imagination. But to his credit he stood by my side, watching me as much as I was watching the windows.

“You know you’re not going to find an answer in the glass,” he said after we’d been standing there for well over half an hour.

“I might,” I countered. I turned to look at him. “Maybe I already have.”

“Yeah? What are you going to do?”

I shrugged, not sure how to put into words all the thoughts that had been bouncing around in my head as I’d stood there in my private meditation. The blue sky. The images that floated through an eternity, soaring but never falling. Evan’s voice telling me to let go. To fly.

And my own fears holding me back.

But when you got right down to it, what did I have to lose?

“I’m going to go for it,” I finally said, boiling all my thoughts down to their utmost simplicity.

“Well, look at you. Angelina’s getting her groove.”

“Don’t be an ass.”

“I’m not. Seriously. I’m proud of you. The guy wants you. You’ve wanted him since forever. So make your move. Tell him that he’s an idiot for keeping a promise to a dead man. All he’s doing is punishing you and giving himself blue balls. And if he sticks to his guns then he’s an idiot and doesn’t deserve you anyway.”

“Exactly.”

He hooked his arm through mine. “Come on. We’ll hit American Modern on our way up to three, then I’ll buy you a glass of wine at Terzo Piano.”

“We just had breakfast.”

“And your point is?”

I had to concede I didn’t have one. After all, it was past noon and even though it was a Thursday, neither one of us was working today.

Besides, a little afternoon buzz might give me just the courage I needed.

nine

Before my weekly museum jaunts with Flynn, I used to come regularly to the Art Institute with Jahn. He’d loved the place as much as I did, so much so that he’d donated both art and money to the museum through the Jahn Foundation, a nonprofit organization that he’d founded and that he personally ran. It was his passion—finding artists who needed funding or institutions that needed cash in order to acquire or a restore a masterpiece or an ancient manuscript—and on more than one occasion I’d ended up in Jahn’s office late into the evening, listening as he discussed his plans and choices with me. It wasn’t officially part of my job, but those hours were always the highlight of my workday.

As Flynn and I wandered through all our favorite galleries, I couldn’t fight the wave of melancholy knowing that’d I’d never do this with Jahn again. But this time it was mixed with a bit of pride, too, because I knew that Jahn’s generosity had made some of these exhibits—and others like them all across the world—possible. And when you got down to it, that was pretty cool.

We’d made it past the iconic American Gothic and had moved on to Ivan Albright’s rather creepy The Door when my phone started singing “I’m Just a Bill” from Schoolhouse Rock. I grinned at Flynn, then snatched it up, turning away from the strange, disturbing image before me. “Daddy!” I kept my voice low and took a few steps back from the painting. “Are you back in the States?”

“Not only are we back in the U.S., we’re in Chicago.”

“Really? Where? Are you at the condo?”

They’re here? Flynn mouthed.

“Not at the condo,” my dad said as I nodded to Flynn. “Your mother insisted on a hotel. Too many memories.”

“What hotel?”