Distastefully In Love

Chapter 12: The Nothing's Kiss

It was sort of weird. He asked her to go to art museum with him.

When he asked her, she was, sort of, shell shocked. It is just that they haven't willingly hung out. All of the times they have hung out were out of coincidence or convenience. Not because they were desperate to spend time with each other or anything remotely close to that. She had wondered if this time was different, but Toby made it clear that it wasn't. It was yet again out of convenience. Or default, is a better way to put it.

Spencer was the only person he knows who apparently appreciates art (but doesn't Aria, too?) He wanted someone whom he would be able to have intellectual conversation with. And apparently he thought Spencer was intellectual enough for the job.

Toby had gotten the museum tickets from a bar owner. Apparently he was so impressed that he could not just let Toby get by with cash, but museum tickets, too. (His wife works at the museum, so it wasn't that much of a sacrifice/tribute.)

So, here they were, once again, alone and together, on the way to some museum, in downtown Philadelphia.

A question has been begging for a heart beat the entire time they have been in the car. She doesn't understand why she cares. Well, she does...but she likes to pretends her feelings for Toby don't exist. Because that is easier. Her feelings are completely illogical—utter nonsense, her feelings are. How can she feel something for a man whose tendencies and mannerisms cause such havoc for her?

Sure, sometimes he is sweet. Like, the shirt thing. And the sticking up for her thing. And letting her sleep over when she was too tired to drive home. But, those moments are rare for him. He isn't always like that.

Maybe he would be like that more if you were nicer more...

The thought hits her harder than Hanna's fist, when she fades from conversation.

She shakes away the thought.

She is kind to him...

He starts the arguments...

"You seem awfully quiet..." he observes.

She is being quiet. Mostly because of that question that haunts her. She is afraid it will make an accidental appearance.

"I'm just listening to the music," she provides, a innocent shrug accompanying the dense words.

"Yes, because the radio's music is so lovely."

"It's not that bad," her rebuttal's weak. She has never been a fan of radio music. She is basically just arguing with him to argue. This is what they do. They fight. They insult each other. They don't go to museums and concerts, and actually enjoy each other's company.

"It's better than talking to me?" he guesses, flickering his oceanic eyes over at her. Those eyes of his. Always intently locking on hers. She blinks her eyes to another direction, but smiles.

"You're not that awful to talk to," she offers, her voice on the lowest volume.

He still hears her though, "really?" he chimes, jubilance in his question.

"Not awful," she says, this time a little more clearly.

"Hmmmm, well, I guess you're not that horrible to talk to either," he muses, a smile spread across his face, his eyes steady on the road.

...

"The artist was actually born in Belgium, not France. A lot of textbooks say that he was born in France, but they only say that because of how small Belgium is. They estimate it, basically. It is actually kind of undignified, in my opinion. I mean, If I ever made an amazing piece of art, like this, and it got incredibly famous, I would want people knowing exactly where I came from. Not just around that area."