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roommate.”
    “Alec,”
I correct with a half smile. “With a
c
.”
    “All right, Calex,” she says with a teasing wink. I don’t find it too funny, but I widen my grin to humor her. “You see that over there?” She points a bright red fingernail at the brick wall over my left shoulder. The whole thing is covered in graffiti art, but the centerpiece is a picture of the New York skyline before 9/11.
    “That’s one of mine,” she says. “I thought it’d be gone the day after I did it, but it’s been here ten years now.”
    “Rian,” I say, reaching out to touch her tag. I suppose some of those bachelors have a few brain cells. Rian’s so famous that she doesn’t need a last name, so I don’t know it. I’m not asking either. “Ten years?”
    She steps up next to me. “Yep. I look at this one and cringe.”
    “Why? It’s amazing.”
    “It’s dark.” She snorts. “And I should’ve used a different color on the Empire State Building. It’s faded so much now.”
    I stroke the lines she indicated. The black spray paint has blurred into the brick, making the picture look as if it was seen through frosted glass. Even with the imperfection, it’s a thing of beauty. Like other things, other people, I’m familiar with.
    “Why not touch it up?” I ask, letting my hand fall.
    She makes a clicking sound with her tongue and reaches into her purse.
    “You’ve just picked activity number one,” she says, pulling out a spray can. “Be my lookout, then we’ll get something to eat.”
    It’s not exactly what I’d call a fun date, but she paid for it, so who am I to complain?
    “Oh,” she says, uncapping the spray can, “you might want to cover your mouth. Don’t want you so high that you forget everything else we’re doing tonight.”
    She gives me a grin before grabbing the hem of her shirt and pressing it over her nose and mouth. Her entire stomach is inked as well. I shoot my gaze somewhere else before I remember that I’m allowed to look. She’s obviously cool with it; it’s completely acceptable to check her out. But when I let my eyes drift back to her midriff I can’t help but feel a pang of guilt somewhere in my gut that I like the way she looks, and I’m curious about her tattoos, and I sort of want to touch them. This guilt comes from a part of me that I’ve buried deep, but it likes to make small appearances at the most inopportune times.
    “So, your bio said you graduated in the arts.” She sprays a line across the bricks. I quickly look out into the street and scan the area. No one’s paying us any attention.
    “Theater arts.”
    “An actor, huh?”
    A hopeful actor managing a store.
I conveniently leave that part out.
    I grin and lean against the opposite wall. “Broadway someday, I hope.”
    “I heard you singing up there. And of course saw your dancing.” She lifts a curious eyebrow at me. “Got any other talents?”
    The answer gets caught somewhere between my head and my tongue, sort of choking me. Yes, there is one that comes to mind, though I wouldn’t so much as call it a talent as something that I enjoy doing with a partner. A specific partner. When her hands graze mine as we let our fingers dance across a smooth black-and-white plane and we create music together, it’s always better than playing alone. It’s all kinds of music: enjoyable and lighthearted fortissimos and quiet and moving pianissimos. It perfectly fits us, me and my partner, in more ways than one.
    Rian looks up at me, still awaiting my answer.
    “Piano,” I tell her. The corners of her eyes crinkle with joy, and then she turns her focus back to her own talent. I watch with careful study, desperately trying to put her into my mind and Theresa out of it. But given all the things I’m passionate about including my best friend in some form or another, I start to wonder if that’s even possible.

18 MONTHS, 23 DAYS AGO: 10:11 A.M.
    “Do you need accompaniment?” the director asks from the center