On the golf course, Drew teaches me how to swing.

“You throw the club,” he laughs.

“What?”

“You swing with your shoulders,” he says, tapping his left one with his right hand, “If you were to let go, that thing would go flying.”

“I do not.”

“Do too.”

We lock eyes for a split second before breaking into laughter. Will and my father watch us then share a look.

“Fine,” I sigh, “maybe I swing with my shoulders. Just a bit.”

“A lot.”

I roll my eyes and get into position, hoping to prove him wrong. The club is heavy and sticky. Gravity is unwelcome but completely necessary in this sport. I line the club up with the white ball, then swing it back in a swift motion, and smack the ball. My shoulders hurt, but the ball is flying far, only a speck in the distance now.

“See!” I cheer, but no one responds. I hear a groan behind me.

“You ok, kid?”

My father and Will are leaning over Drew. His hand is clutching the right side of his face.

“Oh my god,” I run over to them.

Drew’s hand is warm as I move it from his face. His cheek is turning blue already, I’ve just nearly missed his eye.

“Hell of a swing you’ve got there,” he manages to get out after a few seconds. It’s low and breathy, but with an undercurrent of humor. We smile at each other. His mouth is lopsided, a slight grimace from the pain crosses his face, but his eyes crinkle. It’s the first time I really see him.

“We can play another day,” my father says, undoing his gloves.

Will puts his hand out to stop him, “Why don’t we let Sloane take him back to the house?”

His tone is warning, encouraging, a statement in the form of a question. We all nod in agreement, knowing there is no other case to be made, no voice can counter that of Will Buckley. I pull Drew to his feet. I hadn’t let go of his hand since I pulled it from his face.

*    *    *

The house is quiet when we get back. I walk Drew up the stairs, leading him by his elbow. We go to the shared bathroom between the tansy room and the ivy room. Drew sits on the sink, letting his body slouch against the white marble. I pull a first aid kit from the cabinet.

“Let me see.”

Drew moves the bag of ice from his face. It’s purple now, spreading from the apple of his cheek to his ear, and a small cut lines the outside corner of his eye. He grits his teeth, his wet face glistening. It’s completely beautiful.

“It’s that bad?”

“What?”

“You went quiet,” Drew says with a smile.

I’m suddenly flustered, “Oh, I just… I’m sorry.”

“It’s ok.”

I pour alcohol onto a cotton pad. “On the count of three.” We start together, “One, two,” but I press it to his face before we reach three

“God, ow. It really hurts,” Drew’s voice cracks childishly, though I find it endearing.

“I know. I’m sorry.” His blue eyes dart between mine. “Only a few more seconds.”

I take the cotton pad off and peel a small bandage. I stand in between his knees, on my tip toes, and hover it above the cut. My eyes won’t focus, I have to get even closer. Drew’s warm breath brushes my ear. Focusing becomes even harder. It takes me a few seconds, but I finally stick it. I run my thumb over the covered cut. Drew leans his bruised cheek into my hand. His face becomes soft and raw, a mix of curiosity and comfort in the back of his eyes.

In a spur of the moment, I lean up to kiss his purple cheek, “All better.” I swear he blushes under the bruise.

We exist in silence. I pack up the first aid kit and throw away the scraps. Drew pushes himself off the sink, but falters, and I have to grab his waist to steady him. When he’s fully upright, I make my way to the door.

“Sloane.”

I turn around, “Drew. “Let me take you out.”

“What?” I bark a laugh.

“I’m serious.”

“Why?”

Drew is an anxious sight. He’s wringing his hands, shifting his weight, and can barely even look at me. “Why not?”

“Try harder next time.”

*    *    *

Sarah frantically calls me, so I go back to the city on Friday. We’re a month out from the gallery opening, a new show called Sire Bond: Inextricable Roots. It’s a group show featuring work from both rising stars and esteemed legends that center around their childhood years.

A week later, I’m on the phone with my father when Sarah brings me a packet. “I just need you to finalize the guest list.”

“Who’s that,” he asks with a crackly voice.

“My assistant brought me the guest list for the show. You and mom are on it.”

“Invite the Buckleys, too.” 

“Why? Aren’t they still at the Vineyard?”

I can hear him nodding through the phone, “Just do it, Sloane.”

“I will,” I sigh, “but why? I doubt they’ll even come down for it.”

“Drew will.”

I roll my eyes, “How do you know?”

“He’s back in the city. He’ll be happy to get the invite.”

“I’m sure he has better things to do.”

My father hesitates, then spits it out, almost under his breath, “He wants to see how you perform in your element. How good you are.”

The phone line hums with silence. I try to pick apart what he just said, what it could possibly mean. “What?”

“Just invite them.” His voice almost pleads, “Invite him, at least.”

“No, what did you say before?”

“Invite him, Sloane.” I don’t reply. “I love you, be a smart girl.”

My father hangs up with a sharp beep. The phone is like a lead weight in my hand. He wants to see how you perform in your element. Perform. How good you are. Good.

*    *    *

The show is a success. The gallery is so full you can barely move. Sarah pulls me aside throughout the evening to tell me which reporter has just walked in: Washington Post, the New Yorker, Art Forum, New York Magazine, Vogue, Vanity Fair, the New York Times, Harper’s Bazaar, freelance critics. They line up for quotes, probe me about my philosophy, the genius behind my curation. One even asks me what it's like to be at the top. I beam, I blab, I give them the polished, witty answers they’re looking for.

Sarah and I are the last ones in the gallery. The artists have already gone to the afterparty, and we’ve promised our presence, just as soon as the gallery was back in shape. We pick up cocktail napkins and straighten the exhibition catalogs. I bring Sarah a stack of plastic wine glasses.

“Can you throw these out?”

She nods, taking them into the back. Finally a moment of peace. The art is brilliant, the space is perfect, the show was a hit. I let myself take it in, be proud, before I’ll have to go to the afterparty where the artists will take credit for every ounce of the success.

“Nice job.”

I turn around. Half of the lights are off, hiding the voice’s face, though I immediately know who it is.

“So you did get the invite,” I throw back, hands on my hips.

He steps into the light, my breath catches in my throat. The last time I’d seen Drew, his face was every color of the rainbow: red sunburns, and the yellow, green, blue, purple bruise. Now, towards the end of summer, he’s an even tan, blonde hair a few shades lighter.

“I’ve been here all night,” he says, walking closer.

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“You seemed so in your element. I couldn’t get a moment in between all of the very important art people kissing your feet.”

“Well you should come to the afterparty,” I blink, “I need a date.”

“Lucky me, I finally get to take Sloane King out,” he offers his elbow.

I pass his arm, walking to the back of the gallery where my office is. “Don’t blow it.”

I know he’s watching me go, rhythmic clicks of my heels becoming distant as I venture further into the building. In my office, I get a moment of peace. My heart is thumping so hard I can almost see it through my dress. I sit down for a second, let a long breath gather in my lungs.

Sarah comes in, “There’s a man out there. A man man.”

I nod, “I know.”

She stutters, “Oh, I’m so sorry, I didn’t know he was your boyfriend, or whatever.”

“He’s not.” I stand up and smooth out my dress. “Just an old family friend. But he’s been trying to take me out, and I guess I’m finally letting him.”

Sarah grins, “You two go ahead. I’ll lock up.”