Becoming His Muse, Complete Set (15 page)

Yet I really know nothing of this man, or his boyhood, or family, or past or future. We’ve only had these few fiery moments so far. In that time he’s gotten under my skin in a way that mesmerizes me. Do I need to more about him? More than this power he has over me, this way I come alive under his gaze, his touch? Perhaps not. He wants me to inspire him, but I don’t really know how to do that. I only know how to feel what I feel. Maybe all I can do is share that with him in some way.

I’m tempted to kiss him again, to wake him up so we can keep going, but I resist. It’s late. I have classes tomorrow. So does he. And I’m still kind of in shock at the line we’ve crossed.

At the same time it feels like the most natural thing in the world. Yet I know it’s not. I know it’s wrong.

Oh, what have we done? We’ve taken the first beautiful, slippery steps down the slope into the dangerous and forbidden. So why do I feel as if I’m floating in some heavenly dream?

I graze a finger along his jaw, feeling the stubble there. I want to feel every growing hair, every whisper of his breath. He shifts in his sleep, sighs, and turns toward me, but doesn’t waken. I lightly touch the small round scar by his collarbone. He flinches slightly but soon settles into a deeper sleep.

I wish I could stay longer, but I know I won’t be able to sleep. I’d lie there worrying about the best time to sneak out. How early would it have to be to avoid anyone else in the building? Most classes don’t start earlier than 8:30, but maybe some people go to the gym, or to an open studio, like I often do. I can’t take a chance. I can’t get caught here. We can’t get caught together.

I pull the duvet over his shoulders and turn off the side lamp. Then I gather up my clothes and get dressed in the bathroom. Carrying my boots under my arm, I tiptoe to the door and slip out. The hall is dim, empty, and silent. But then out of the silence I hear sobbing. I stop a moment, turn to listen. Someone on this floor is crying herself to sleep. My new feelings of happiness, satisfaction, and excitement are so different from the deep, private sadness I’m overhearing. I feel an urge to comfort the crier, and yet I’m not supposed to be here at all. As I push through the door leading to the parkade stairs, my heart feels stretched in multiple directions.

I slip on my boots and skitter like a fugitive back to my dorm room. I feel both terrified and emboldened by the night’s events. The fall air is crisp and though it’s very dark, my vision seems enhanced and I make out shapes and textures I never noticed before. Back in my room, the colors seem more vivid, the feel of my duvet softer, all my senses are heightened. Something is opening in me. Something I never knew was closed. When I was last in my room, earlier this same night, I had been determined to do the right thing, follow the rules, and say no to Logan O’Shane. But I’ve been on a journey and back again and everything in me screams yes, a vibrant, thrilling yet secret “Yes!”

The next morning, Sunday, I still feel that floaty feeling. I keep hitting snooze on my alarm until I remember why it was set in the first place. Ruby and I have plans. I quickly dress and then we leave campus and head to the nearby tennis club, where my father bought me a membership. I told him not to, that it was an unnecessary expense, but he insisted that I keep up with the practice since he’d spent all that money on lessons from ages 12 to 15. I could care less about tennis these days, but it’ll give me something to talk about during my weekly call home tonight. And Ruby likes going to the club thanks to the male eye candy.

“At least, half these guys are gay,” I inform her as we slouch onto a bench.

“But they can’t all be,” she whines.

“No, but the other half are married.”

She pouts. “You’re no fun.”

We watch tanned limbs in tennis whites race across the courts while we wait for a court to open up.

I can’t stop thinking about Logan and last night. If it hadn’t been Sunday, I probably would have found some excuse to drop by his office. I can’t believe I still don’t have his number; otherwise we might have at least had a few messages to exchange. I bite my nails and wonder what’s going to happen next with him.

“You’re awfully quiet this morning,” says Ruby.

I turn to look at her. She’s scrutinizing me. I stop biting my nails. “I didn’t sleep well last night. That fever came back.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Oh,
really
? Ronnie said he saw you last night,
after
I told him you were sick in bed.”

“Oh. No, I just… I forgot something at the party and had to walk back and I ran into him leaving.”

“You went back?”

“Yeah. It was stupid. I should have just waited until next week. I think going out again brought the fever back.”

“But you’re fine now?”

I nod.

“What did you forget?”

I start biting my nails again. “Nothing important. Just something from…um… Professor Hare. She lent me this thing—” I was trying to come up with something she might have given me but Ruby interjects.

“—Madeleine Hare? She left her husband you know. Apparently she came home one night and caught him in a ménage with two other men. Brutal. That’s why she moved into the faculty apartments this year.”

“She’s
there
?”

I wonder if it had been her crying last night? Then I panic. What if she spotted me walking back with Logan or going in to his apartment? I start biting my nails again, preoccupied with my own worries and barely registering Ruby’s bit of gossip.

“That’s really awful,” I finally manage to say.

Ruby is distracted by a loudly grunted serve.

“Oooh. That guy’s hot.” She waves her hand like a fan. “Whew.”

“I’ve been on the courts since I was twelve, Ruby. Believe me, half play for the other team. As Professor Hare recently found out.” Just then, one of the matches ends. Two guys, older than us, saunter off the court. They walk past us, holding our gazes and smiling.

Ruby leans toward me. “They are definitely on
our
team.”

I give her that. Those were flirty looks. “Let’s go talk to them,” she adds, but the court they just left is assigned to us. I drag her toward the net.

“Come one. Grab your tennis balls.”

She moans. “I had some other ones in mind.”

We play a couple of matches. I win of course, though Ruby’s learned enough playing me to make me run like a demon across the court. I’m glowing pink and dewy with sweat by the time we finish up.

On the way back from the club, we run into Derrick and Casey at the Steady Drip Coffee House. They look like stoned twins, like the male and female version of the same person. They both wear acid wash jeans, black leather jackets, chains and piercings. Their hair is the same color and close to the same shoulder length, but Derrick keeps his tied back at the nape of his neck. They dip cookies in their coffees, at the same time, without even watching each other. It’s like they’re mirrors.

Derek has a small digital video camera in his palm and he’s filming Casey as she sips her coffee. She waggles her tongue at him and then pulls out her phone to film him doing the same thing. They are pretty weird.

We get our drinks to go and while I’m waiting for my London Fog latte I hear Ruby talking to Casey. “Your place is around here, right?”

“About two blocks that way.” She points down Thurlow Street away from campus.

“Cool,” says Ruby. “I’d give just about anything to live off campus. You guys are so lucky.”

As they look at each other and nod they seem to share a secret language.

“Do you have easels set up there?” I ask, taking a sip of bergamot scented milk before I snap on the lid.

“Everything. Easels, a sculpting tables, pottery wheel. You name it.”

“No kiln though” says Derrick.

“No kiln,” echoes Casey forlornly. They are an odd pair. But they have their own place… My mind starts buzzing.

“Can I stop by sometime and check it out?” I say.

They share another look. “Not, like, you know, out of the blue or anything. Call first.”

“Yeah, of course,” I say. I’ve got their numbers from Dr T’s class list. “See you at the next art history lecture,” I say, as Ruby and I head toward the door.

Outside, Ruby says, “Why do you want to see their place?”

I shrug. “If I have any trouble getting studio time I might ask them if I can work there occasionally. You know, as the pressure builds before the art shows there will be more competition for the campus studio. I have a lot of paintings to finish before spring.”

What I’m really thinking about is how to get naked with Logan again. The faculty apartments are too risky, and his office is open to all other students. It would be safer if we could meet somewhere off campus.

Ruby nods. “Guess that makes sense.”

I sip my sweet, milky tea and wonder how many more lies I will end up telling Ruby.

Later that evening, my mother calls me at 7 PM sharp. Every Sunday night. This is her schedule.

“Did you get your train ticket for Thanksgiving?” she asks.

“Not yet. It’s two months away.”

“You know how those trains fill up. Do you want me to book it? ”

“I’ll take care of it, Mom.”

There is a pause and I hear a ‘goddammit’ in the background.

“Is that dad?”

Instead of answering me, she calls loudly, her mouth too close to the receiver, so I have to pull it away for, “Honey! I’ve got Ava on the line. Pick up.”

I hear mumbling. Then my mom says, “He wants to know if you played tennis today.”

I sigh. “Yes, with Ruby. Is he going to get on the line?”

“He’s busy watching the news, lord knows why since it amps up his blood pressure.”

“Everything seems to,” I mumble, but my mom doesn’t seem to hear that.

“How is the semester starting out, honey? Any eligible young men in your classes?”

She never asks me about my painting or my studies. She seems to think my future depends on finding a husband in college, or at least a steady boyfriend. I wonder what she’d say if I told her about Logan. I almost giggle to myself imagining her dumbfounded expression. But as entertaining as that might be for all of five seconds, it would also probably amp up
her
blood pressure. As for my father, he might completely self-combust. Logan is neither husband nor steady boyfriend material. I really don’t know what he is, except an unexpected surprise, and a secret, so I say to her,

“No one I’m interested in, Mom.”

I hear the disappointment in her sigh.

“Law school will be more promising,” she says in a cheerful tone. “Your father’s been writing away for catalogues. I’m sure there will a stack here by the holidays.”

“Oh, great.”

When I was younger, my father tolerated, at times even celebrated, my artistic aspirations, but when I announced my plan to major in art in university, he almost had a heart attack.

My mom stood up for me then. Not because she thought I was making a good decision — she was on my dad’s side about heading into law, business, or something related to political science, probably because she thought I’d find a more successful husband — but she knew that if I had made up my mind about getting a degree in art, there was no changing it.

So when my dad threatened to pull my college funding, and I said I didn’t care, that I could make art without a college degree, my mom negotiated with my dad, because she, at the very least, wanted a college graduate for a daughter. And in the end so did he.

They never did stop trying to persuade me though, and now they’d pinned their hopes on postgraduate studies.

I let my mom ramble on for a few more minutes before I hang up.

For now, my parents can have their fantasies about my life. Soon enough I’ll have to burst their bubble. Not that I’m looking forward to it. They’ve been good to me. Maybe too good. But that doesn’t mean they get to live my life for me.

Monday morning, between my color theory seminar and Dr T’s art history class, I head over to the library to start researching a paper due next week.

On my way out, pushing through the old oak doors with my arms full of books, I see Logan coming up the stairs on his way in. My heart skips as our eyes lock. I stop at the top of the stairs, held still by his none-too-pleased gaze. I’m happy to see him, but he doesn’t look the same.

“Miss Nichols,” he says airily, his tone voice not matching the look in his eyes. “How’s the painting going?”

Before I answer, he says, under his breath, “You ran away from me again.”

“Oh, it’s going well. Thanks for asking Professor O’Shane.” In a whisper, “You were
asleep
.” I quickly glance around to see if anyone is listening to us. Logan’s good looks, and his intense presence, tend to draw attention. I’m already finding it challenging to stay aware of my surroundings when he’s near me, but it’s essential that we keep up a pretence.

“I have to see you again soon, Ava,” says Logan, leaning slightly towards me and speaking just above a whisper, “We didn’t even
fuck
the other night. Not that I’m complaining.”

I shouldn’t be surprised by his word choice. Did I really expect him to say ‘make love’? No. I’ve already decided not to be afraid of his words, or his act. There is so much more under all that and he’s chosen me to see past it all.