07 | Chiaroscuro

THE ART INSTITUTE OF CHICAGO was undeniably an impressive building. A trio of large banners showcasing the current exhibits elegantly hung down the front facade directly over the entrance. Beside the front steps, two bronze lion statues stood like guardians placed there to protect all of the treasures that were concealed behind those doors.

The enjoyment Jen took in admiring it all was dampened by the weather. The cold, although unpleasant, wasn't really the problem—it was this wind. It cut straight through her clothes and pierced her to the bone, raising goosebumps all across her skin and making her shiver in a way that she couldn't control. She could hear it howling through the trees and when she looked up and saw that the sky was smothered by a thick layer of dark clouds, she knew that the sun would not be arriving to give her any reprieve.

She supposed this was what she deserved for moving to a place that was literally nicknamed the Windy City. She recalled what Robert had said about his sister moving further south and thought that the idea of escaping these cold winters didn't sound so bad right now.

Speaking of Robert, she was going to have some very choice words for him on Monday if he invited her here and then forgot that they were supposed to meet. It was 4:00 p.m. He was supposed to be here now, but when she retreated a few steps towards the sidewalk to see if she could spot him approaching from either direction, she came up empty-handed.

Another punch of blustery air hit her. She was going to have some very choice words for him indeed.

As she was standing there contemplating how bad of a Catholic she would be for going off on him, she heard a series of quick footsteps from behind, and then he was suddenly appearing at her side. The wind was making quite a mess of his curls, which under these dark skies looked black as a raven. But his smile, his smile was always so warm. As were his eyes.

"I'm sorry," he apologized to her as soon as he saw that she looked like a human popsicle. "I didn't mean to keep you waiting. Getting the tickets took longer than I expected it to."

One of his hands reached into his coat pocket and retrieved two paper stubs. She hadn't expected him to pay for hers and now felt guilty that she'd just been desiring to snap at him in a way that would have made St. Catherine roll in her grave.

"You didn't have to get mine," Jen said a bit meekly.

"It seemed like the right thing to do since I asked you to come," he said. "I didn't want to be rude."

She smiled at that, a soft smile. "Aren't you worried your politeness is bothering me?"

"No," he grinned back like he knew something that she didn't. "Because I'm not really being that polite to start with. I'm a museum member, so I get a free guest ticket."

Apparently, he was honest, too. "You could have just let me be impressed with your manners," she pointed out as they started the rest of the way up the steps.

"I find that honesty is usually best." He looked over towards her, and for a split second, Jen felt like he could see right through her. See all the secrets that were carved into her heart with a knife. "And you don't strike me as someone who would ever appreciate being lied to."

The shiver that ran down her spine had nothing to do with the cold.

Tempted as she was to find a map as soon as they were through the front doors, Jen refrained, wanting whatever he brought her here for to surprise her. She tried to keep her eyes off the signs that pointed to various exhibits as he led her through the halls, though it was impossible to miss that they entered the European wing. She had expected that much—this outing was obviously spurred by their conversation, but what precisely he wished for her to see remained a mystery.

She got her answer when his footsteps finally slowed outside of one of the smaller galleries. The sign above the entryway read, The Art of Artemisia Gentileschi with the sub-line, Baroque Painter, 1593-1656.

Artemisia. A girl.

Jen beamed and felt a sudden pull to rush ahead into the gallery, like a string had been tied to her heart and was tugging her along. She didn't resist it.

The first painting that one saw when they stepped inside was certainly an eye-catching one—it showed a young woman decapitating a man with a sword while her maid pinned him down. His head was at an unnatural angle, blood spurting from the wound and dripping down the bed.

She already had a good guess as to what the scene being depicted was, and when she quietly walked over to read the title plaque, it confirmed her suspicion. Judith Slaying Holofernes. It was one of those stories that was in the Catholic Bible but not the Protestant one and told the tale of a beautiful young widow named Judith who, with her maidservant's help, beheaded the Assyrian general who was going to destroy her home.

The painting, grotesque as it was, was superbly done, rivaling any of the great masterpieces that she'd seen in her book. Intrigued, she kept reading the informational plaques that accompanied it and the surrounding paintings.

Chiaroscuro (Italian for "light-dark") is the use of strong contrasts between light and dark to create three-dimensional volume in painting. Strong chiaroscuro became a popular effect during the sixteenth century in Mannerism and Baroque art. Divine light illuminated, often rather inadequately, the compositions of Tintoretto, Veronese, and perhaps most famously, Caravaggio.

Another plaque went on to talk more about Baroque art and the notable artists of the time. Jen remembered reading about Caravaggio in her book and being unsurprised to learn that although he was a brilliant painter, he was an absolutely terrible person. Like, murderer-level terrible.

A small image of his Judith was shown below the plaque, which Jen didn't understand – why show off his work in a show about Gentileschi? – until she abruptly did. Even from just a quick glance at both, it was crystal clear which one was painted by a man and which by a woman.

The differences were obvious. Caravaggio's Judith looked very dainty and passive and the maid was shown as an old hag standing off to the side. But both of the women in Gentileschi's were strong, confident, beautiful, determined. They weren't afraid to do what they came to do.

With a new respect for both Artemisia Gentileschi and the curatorial staff at the museum, Jen slowly made her way around the gallery to admire all of the paintings. She was dimly aware of Robert's presence elsewhere in the room, but he was giving her the space to roam as she pleased and form her own thoughts on the work without his input.

It wasn't until she had finally circled back to Judith that he returned to her side and, in the soft tone of voice that one was expected to use when in a library or museum, asked, "What do you think?"

"It's incredible. She's incredible," Jen said, still somewhat mesmerized, and then looked over towards him. "But did you really bring me all the way here to prove me wrong? About there not being enough female artists?"

"Not at all," he assured her smoothly. "On the contrary, I would think that my needing to point out one of the novel examples to you rather proves your point. And this actually isn't the only thing I wanted to show you."

Jen was bewildered. "It isn't?"

He shook his head, a silent invitation for her to let him lead her elsewhere. As she followed him out of the European wing and down the stairs, she eventually gathered that they were heading towards the Modern and Contemporary wing. They didn't talk to one another on the way, but silence with him was never too heavy or too awkward. It felt like a reprieve from the expectation to constantly have something to say, a space in which being quiet wasn't perceived as an indicator that she wasn't enjoying his company. When they first met, Jen had seen him as being much more extraverted than she was, but she'd learned over the course of nearly three weeks and over a dozen letters from him that despite his wit and charisma, there were many times in which he preferred to keep to himself.

Her eyebrows furrowed. They were in the far corner of one of the contemporary galleries now, in front of a doorway veiled by a thick black curtain. And it was almost eerily silent—there were only a couple of other visitors and a broody security guard in this particular gallery right now.

"If something's about to jump out at me, I am actually going to murder you," she whispered to Robert before striding ahead and drawing the curtain aside.

And she was in a dark blue void. She blinked, trying to get her bearings on what she was supposed to be looking at, but as far as she could tell there wasn't anything to look at. The room seemed to be about the size of one of the classrooms at St. Catherine's, though it was hard to gauge when everything was an ocean of endless blue. Deep blue, the color of the sky just before the sun begins to rise. The walls seamlessly transitioned down into the floor and up to the ceiling since they were all the exact same hue. And there, inlaid into the ceiling, were tiny white lights scattered like stars.

Jen kept waiting for something to happen. For the lighting to change, for a video to start playing, for music to start. For anything, really. And nothing came.

"I don't get it," she announced to Robert, who had soundlessly followed her into this room. They were alone now, and the heavy curtain drowned out all noise that came from the other side of it. "What's the point?"

"The point?" Something had changed in his voice now that it was just the two of them. His expression was still relaxed, but his voice sounded almost clearer somehow. More raw, more open, but still soft. Something about listening to it felt bizarrely intimate despite the fact that he was several feet away from her and not even looking in her direction. He was gazing around, at ease. "To me, the point is that there isn't much of one at all. I come here when I need a quiet place to hide and clear my head."

Jen sucked in a tiny breath. She had never imagined him as someone who might want to hide, who would ever run away from problems like she did.

Her question came out of her more timidly than she expected it to. Her voice, too, had changed. "Do you think I want to hide?"

He looked at her now. His eyes were so dark in this lighting, almost black. It made her want to move closer to him, to see him as he was, but she kept her feet planted on the floor where they were. If he wanted the same thing as she did, he would have closed some of the distance. He would have come to her.

He was revealing himself slowly, not all at once.

"You seem like you always have your guard up," he observed delicately, so delicately that she couldn't have taken offense from it even if she tried. And how could she be angry when it was the truth? "Like you're always bracing yourself for a blow that may or may not come."

Her heart tightened. She did hide. And she thought she was good at it. But somehow, some way, he could see much more of her soul than she thought she was placing on display.

"I felt that way, too," he said when she said nothing, pulling his eyes off of her to resume gazing around the room like it was a galaxy, like he saw something there in that blue that she didn't. His feet carried him very slowly, as if he was subconsciously orbiting around the center of the room – her.

"During my last year of school, when I was competing to be the best so that I could find a way to stay in this country. My peers could get by with just being good, but I had to prove that I was worthy. I had to be remarkable just to earn the right to exist here and it felt like the impossible."

Jen's heart – no, not just her heart, her whole being – ached for him. Ached because in some ways, she knew exactly how he felt. She was always the odd one out, the underdog, the girl in a room run by boys. No one thought she could be smart enough, capable enough. But that wasn't the same as trying to build a home in a land that wanted to call you a stranger. She couldn't imagine that.

"That must have been hard," she said quietly.

"It was," he agreed. "And then it got better. Did you see what chiaroscuro means?"

She frowned at the change in topic but repeated the information that she'd read. "Light to dark."

"Yes," he nodded. "And no. There's not actually any to there. It's just light dark. I've always liked that word because of that. It's not about one coming before the other; it's that they're both always there. We have wonderful days and then we have terrible days where the dark overpowers everything and it feels like we'll never get out. But there's always a little bit of light there if you look hard enough for it."

It wasn't unlike other sentiments that she had already heard before, but there was nothing silly or trivial about it when it came from him. She knew what those days were like, those dark days. She'd had plenty of them. And after all of it, she was still standing, so he must have been right.

"I found this place back when I was in school, when I was really scared about the future," he told her, looking up at the ceiling. "But I came in here and it was so calm and I could finally take a minute to just breathe. And I don't know what it is, but something about seeing those little lights made me feel like I was going to be okay."

She felt a cacophony of emotions all at once. Surprise. Awe. Sadness. Affection. And an odd sense of protectiveness. This was only the second time they had been together completely separate from work, but it felt like that formal facade was being peeled away. Like she was finally getting to see a glimpse of the man she sensed was behind all those words he wrote to her. He was a bit closer to her now and she joined him in admiring the lights.

"They do kind of look like stars," she murmured.

"And we both know they're not." His voice was even gentler now, like the lull of a tide coming to shore and then silently slipping away. "But that doesn't stop me from coming here if I miss home and letting myself feel like I'm back there, walking along the beach to watch the stars over the sea. There's a little plaque outside the door that I assume has the artist's name on it, but I've never looked closely enough to find out. Because as far as I'm concerned, there's no reason to not get sucked into the magic of it and let myself believe those are stars. To dream a little bit, to be like a child and let my imagination run loose."

Jen barely noticed that she had gravitated towards him – or him to her, or both of them to each other – and that they were now side by side, their shoulders nearly touching. They didn't look at one another, but she could feel him there and smell the warm, pleasant scent, like cloves, that clung to him. It was the closest she'd ever been to him.

"I suppose I've fallen in love with the idea that there are some sensations in this universe that are simply inexplicable," he confessed to her, and she had no trouble believing it. The sweet, soft timbre of his voice really did sound like love. "My job is to explain things to people and yet it brings me so much peace to know that not everything can be justified by facts or formulas. Some things don't make sense. But that doesn't mean they're not real."

Her breath caught, every neuron in her body suddenly alight with a fearful wonder. There was a question at the tip of her tongue, one she knew she couldn't ask.

Are you...are you talking about us?

This thing that she was feeling for him didn't make any sense. But it felt real. And he was telling her that it was.

She swallowed and let her eyelids flutter shut, praying it wasn't obvious how shaky her breathing was. Something light and warm had brushed against the back of her hand. His hand. His fingers, so close to hers that even the smallest motion would intertwine them.

She might have been imagining it, but she thought she heard him suck in a tiny breath, too.

"You don't have to hide, Jen." She felt his skin, slightly calloused, as her pinky wrapped around his. Or maybe it was him that reached out for her. "But if you're going to, you should know you have a safe place to do it."

She tried to burn this feeling in her heart forever, knowing that she was about to let go of it.

"Thank you," she whispered and let go of him to adjust her hair. They couldn't– they couldn't be with each other like that. So when she spoke again, her voice had returned to normal and she was moving towards the curtain. "You just might be poetic enough that I'll let you off the hook for bringing me to look at a painting of a guy with blood spurting out of his neck like a Gusher."

She could see his eyebrows furrow as they stepped back into the light. "A what?"

Jen laughed louder than she probably should have in the gallery. "They're these fruit snacks. They came out last year, I think. Weirdly addictive. I'll have to bring you some sometime."

"I'm not sure if we should be comparing blood to food," he grinned. All of his usual humor had returned as if they hadn't just been holding hands in the dark.

She was trying not to blush about that. Now that they were back amongst the crowds, she felt like she'd been pulled out of a trance. As he politely asked her which exhibit she'd like to look at next and she, stumbling over her words, stammered that she'd like to go look at the Ancient Greek and Roman stuff, one question repeated itself over and over in her head—

What in the world was that?

What was he thinking? What was she thinking? They were friends, of course, and she wouldn't have tried to deny that even if she was asked to. But was what just happened a normal thing that friends did? The more she replayed it in her mind, the more confused she got.

Had he gone in there with that whole spiel prepared? It was certainly profound enough to be rehearsed, yet she had a hard time believing that it was. What would have been the point of that? Men only got all dramatic and poetic like that on purpose if they wanted something, like—

Like if he wanted to kiss her.

Jen's mouth was suddenly dry. This was insane. She was insane. It was pure madness to even consider that he, her coworker, would ever think about that.

But now, as she looked at a rather beautiful statue of Apollo, she wondered...

What would have happened if she didn't pull her hand back? Would he have let go? Or would he have let his fingers get tangled up with hers? Held her hand tightly and told her that whatever was bothering her was going to be okay, taken her in his arms and—

"Jen?"

She realized that Robert was looking at her. A weird noise came out of her that she disguised as a cough, but he didn't seem to notice anything out of the ordinary. "Yes?"

"I asked if there was anything else you wanted to look at before we have to go. The museum closes in fifteen minutes."

"Oh." She hadn't realized how late it was—to her, the time since they left the blue room had passed in the blink of an eye. "No, I don't think so."

Nothing that they could cram into fifteen minutes, at least. The museum was massive and there was still so much more left to see, but she knew it would all be best saved for another day. As if reading her mind, he promised her on their way out that he could bring her back sometime to see everything else.

Cold air crawled beneath her skin as they stepped back outside. Jen instinctively pulled her coat tighter around herself and felt a frown form on her lips. It was so dark out, unusually dark. The sky was a black ether devoid of any planes or stars – due to the clouds, she assumed. They seemed to be playing tricks on her. It was almost as if she could see inky shapes up there moving, writhing—

And fear clutched at her heart. Jen hadn't even thought about the fact that they would be leaving after dark. She hated being on the streets alone at night, anxious that the men on the L were looking at her body. Constantly looking over her shoulder to make sure she wasn't being followed, fumbling through her bag for something sharp to hold between her fingers in case someone tried to do something to her.

She must have paled because Robert was wearing a concerned look, worrying at the corner of his bottom lip with his teeth. Jen, not wanting to look like she was staring, quickly pulled her eyes away as he asked, "Are you okay?"

She swallowed a lump in her throat. "Yes, I'm fine."

But while his expression was calm, she could see a little bit of panic in those dark irises. With a jolt, she realized that he misinterpreted why she turned from him. "Did something I said bother-"

"No," she stopped him. The wind was whipping her hair around in her face; she impatiently brushed it aside. "No, it's not that at all. Please don't think that. I– it means a lot to me that you trust me."

She caught the way his shoulders relaxed in the slightest, relieved that he hadn't offended her. But he hadn't wholly dropped the matter, either. He was looking at her like he was still trying to figure out what was wrong. She stared at the ground, embarrassed that she was so frightened by nightmare situations that she conjured up in her head, but when he spoke up again a moment later, he said the last thing she expected him to.

"Do you need a hug?"

Jen frowned. "What?"

Now he looked a little amused. "A hug. You do know what those are, right?"

She almost rolled her eyes, but he wasn't entirely off—she didn't even remember when the last time she hugged someone was. Celie wasn't much of a hugger, and her parents...

Jen found herself giving the smallest of nods and then he was in front of her, lightly placing his hands on her arms to coax her into letting go of herself—her fingers were still clenching her coat. Slowly, she got herself to loosen her grip and he did what she was too nervous to do first – carefully wrap his arms around her. There was nothing romantic about the gesture. He was holding her so gently, not like she was fragile but like he was trying to respect her boundaries and not pull her so tightly to him. She felt so odd as she awkwardly put her arms around him, the motion so unfamiliar to her, but then her hands were clasped and she was holding him back.

Oh. She understood now. She had completely forgotten the comfort a hug could bring, that feeling like the weight of your stressors, even the tiny ones you didn't realize were there, was partially borne by the other person. She was stressed about her new job. About Nora. About Dad. About Mom. About what she was going to do next. But she buried her face in his shoulder, felt his warmth, breathed in the scent of him, and let him hold all that grief for just a second. A sharp breath left her lips, the sort that usually accompanied crying, but she had no tears to shed right now. For the first time in a long time, she felt like she could breathe.

Jen let go of him, giving him a small smile when she pulled back to let him know that she was feeling better now. He glanced around like he was just now noticing how empty the streets were.

"...Would you like me to walk you home?"

She almost sighed with relief. Yes, please don't let me get murdered by a creepy ax man on the way home. Jen didn't mind if he knew where she lived. She didn't think he was a stalker and it seemed like a much less risky option than setting off on her own.

"I'd like that. If it's not too much trouble."

In many ways, the journey home wasn't much different than when they'd walked to lunch together. Sure, it was further and she was the one leading the way this time, but he didn't behave in any way out of the ordinary and she didn't, either.

And yet something, a rather major something, had undoubtedly changed between them tonight. Or at least it did on her end—who was she to say if his feelings for her had altered at all? But each time she blinked, there was an image burned into the back of her eyelids. An image of her own creation, a fantasy. An image of them, in the blue room, kissing.

Her feelings were a jumbled rain cloud in her head, loneliness mingling with excitement. She didn't know exactly how she felt for him. But whatever it was, it definitely wasn't just friendly.

They arrived at her front steps much too soon. There was so much she wanted to say to him as she glanced at him back halfway up and saw that he was still there, making sure she safely made it all the way inside before he departed. He had an unreadable little smile on his lips.

"Thank you," she said softly. "For everything."

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A/N:

I know the art history nerd in me really jumped out, but I hope you enjoyed it!

Make sure to go read the letter interlude posted right before this chapter if you haven't already and please consider voting or commenting if you liked it ♡