ONE

I am twenty-four years old and I am in love with a man who will never touch me.

The gallery is full. Seventy people. Maybe eighty. I stopped counting after the first half hour. They are looking at my paintings. Drinking wine. Talking about composition and color theory and whether abstract expressionism is having a resurgence. I am smiling. Nodding. Answering questions. But I am scanning the room for one person.

He is not here yet.

Nina touches my elbow. Says,"Stop looking for him."

I say,"I am not looking for anyone."

"You are looking for Matteo. You have been looking for him since the doors opened. He will come. He always comes."

She is right. He always comes. Late. Stands in the back. Watches. Never approaches until the crowd thins. Never stays long enough for me to really talk to him. Just long enough to say something about my father. About how proud my father would be. Like that is the only reason he is here. Like I am still six years old and he is still my father's best friend doing his duty.

Except my father has been dead for eighteen years. And I am not six anymore.

A collector asks me about the painting in the center of the room. The largest one. Black and red. Heavy brushstrokes. I tell her it is about loss. About the space between wanting something and having it. About the distance that cannot be crossed. She buys it. Three thousand dollars. I should be happy. I am not happy. I am still scanning the room.

At eight thirty, he walks in.

Matteo Marchetti. Six foot two. Dark hair shot through with silver. Gray suit. No tie. He stands inside the door for five seconds. Looks around. Finds me. Our eyes meet. He nods. I nod back. Then he walks to the far wall. Stands in front of one of the smaller pieces. Does not look at me again.

I excuse myself from the collector. Walk toward him. Get intercepted by the gallery owner. By another artist. By a couple who want to know if I do commissions. By the time I get free, Matteo is gone from the wall. I find him near the exit. He sees me coming. Waits.

I stop in front of him. Say,"You came."

He says,"Of course."

"You do not have to. Every time. You know that."

"I know."

"Then why do you?"

He does not answer immediately. Just looks at me. His eyes are dark. Brown. Almost black in this light. There is something in them. Something I cannot name. Something I have been seeing for years. Something he never lets me touch.

He says,"Your father would be proud."

There it is. My father. The ghost that stands between us. The reason he is here. The reason he will never be here for me.

I say,"Stop doing that."

"Doing what?"

"Stop talking about him like that is the only reason you are here."

His jaw tightens. Just slightly."It is the only reason."

I step closer. Not too close. Just close enough that he has to look down at me."Is it?"

He does not answer. He never answers. He just looks at me like I am something dangerous. Something he should not be near. Then he says,"I should go. Congratulations, Elena. The show is excellent."

He turns. Walks out. I stand there and watch him leave. Again. Like I have watched him leave a hundred times before. A thousand times. Every time I get close. Every time I think maybe this time will be different. He leaves.

Nina appears beside me. Says,"Well?"

I say,"Well what?"

"Did you tell him?"

"Tell him what?"

"That you are in love with him."

I say,"He knows."

"Does he?"

"Yes. He just does not care."

Nina loops her arm through mine. Says,"He cares. That is the problem. He cares too much. And he is terrified."

I do not respond. Because she might be right. And if she is right, then I do not know what to do with that. Because terrified men do not change their minds. Terrified men just keep running. And I am tired of chasing.

The gallery closes at ten. I help pack up the unsold pieces. Sign the sales paperwork. Thank everyone. Get a cab home. My loft is in Bushwick. Industrial building. Third floor. Big windows. Exposed brick. I have lived here for three years. Matteo pays the rent. I did not know that until last year. I thought it was a grant. An artist residency program. The