He stands there, mouth hanging open, like Dad’s a superhero. We’re talking about the guy who sticks his finger in the tub of hummus and sings sappy French love songs in the shower. But Graham shakes Dad’s hand, stares at him, and tells him how he’s always admired his work. So while I was watching Scooby Doo and playing with my Polly Pockets, Graham was soaking in Dad’s paintings at various Miami hot spots. Dad stops the waiter and grabs a cube of cheddar off the tray. “Is this your first time visiting the gallery?” “I’ve been here a couple of times before with my aunt. But I’ve seen your La Fleur collection at the SOBE museum a million times,” Graham says, eyes bugged out like he’s hoping he got the pop-quiz answer right. I’m standing next to them, smushing the cracker crumbs inside my pocket into pixie dust. My face is hooked on Graham’s, which is hooked on Dad’s. “A museum regular.
