“What’d you do last night?” he asks.
“Went to this spoken word poetry slam thing at Café Baudelaire with a couple girls from my Interior Lighting class,” I say. “First time going to one of those and I have to say … it’ll probably be my last.”
He laughs.
“I’m all about the art scene, but how do people keep a straight face when they’re up there? This guy had this whole poem about losing his beloved … stick bug.”
“Stick bug?”
“Yes. Stick bug,” I say. “He had tears in his eyes and everything. I mean, I don’t mean to judge. I’m just saying I can’t relate and it’s not my thing.”
“It’s good to try new things,” Talon says, glancing at me as he flicks on his turn signal.
A few minutes later, he pulls into a parallel parking spot in front of a massive downtown building, one I’ve never seen in my life since I rarely venture off campus.
“We’re here,” he says before climbing out.
I don’t wait for him to get my door, though I’m sure he would. I meet him on the sidewalk.
“What’s this?” I ask as we head to a series of glass doors so dark you can’t see in.
“It’s an art exhibit,” he says, placing his hand on the small of my back and guiding me inside.
We step into a wide-open space, nothing but white walls and white pillars and patrons from all walks of life making their way between stationed exhibits. Talon hands two tickets to a woman dressed in black standing behind a small podium, and then he swipes a couple of champagne glasses from a passing server’s tray.
“For you.” He hands me one of the flutes before scanning the room. “They hold this every year. Most of the time I come alone.”
I’m confused.
And also impressed.
“I never thought of you as an art guy,” I say. Taking a closer look around, I realize this isn’t just art. This is some kind of architecture-art hybrid exhibit. Everything around us has to do with buildings and living spaces.
We pass a hanging banner and I stop in my tracks when I read the words: WELCOME TO THE 20th ANNUAL GOLD-HARRIS EXHIBIT.
Gold-Harris is a world-renowned local architectural firm, one we studied extensively a couple of years back in one of my design classes.
“Are you related to Theodore Gold?” I ask.
Talon takes a sip, his lips pressing flat. “Was. Was related.”
I don’t understand.
“He was my father,” he says. “He died when I was six.”
For a moment, I’m not sure I heard him correctly, so I replay his words in my head. I’m sure to anyone else, this revelation would be no big deal, but he might as well have just told me he’s architecture royalty.
“Oh, my goodness.” I close my gaping mouth and try to show some respect. “I had no idea.”
I didn’t even know Gold had passed. They talked about his work in my class—but they never talked about his life.
“I’m so sorry,” I say. “But for the record, your father’s work is some of my favorite. I admire his talent immensely.”
“Thank you,” he says before extending his arm. “Mind if I show you around?”
I slip my hand into his, the cashmere of his sleeve soft beneath my palm, and he leads me to a wall on the left. It’s a black and white photograph of a beautiful home, white and stately and symmetrical but also welcoming with its picket fence and double front doors. I lean in to take a better look and find a little boy sitting on the front steps, a calico kitten in his lap. He’s grinning ear to ear, his hair wavy and hanging in his face.
The plaque beneath the image reads: “HOME.” Photography by Camilla Gold-Masterson.
“Is that you?” I ask.
“It is. That was the home my father designed and had built for my mother when they got married. She’s the one who took the picture.” He points to a window on the top level. “That was my room.”
“You had a cat.”
He smiles. “We did. Her name was Turtle—because she looked like a turtle sundae.”
My hand is still curled around his bicep and he leads me to the next photo. It’s another image taken by Camilla Gold-Masterson. His mother must have remarried after his father’s death. I try to think of Talon as a child, what that must have been like for him. Given the fact that he claimed he could hardly spend more than an hour with his family nowadays, I can only imagine it wasn’t always ideal.
“Was your mom a photographer?” I ask.
He shrugs. “She dabbled. Mostly she was into interior design, remodeling, that sort of thing.”
I glance around the room. “Is she here?”
“Nah.” He leave sit as that and I don’t pry because nothing about him gives me the impression that he wants to elaborate on it.