Becoming His Muse, Complete Set (22 page)

After I come in his mouth, he mounts me, missionary-style, and looks deep into my eyes as he thrusts with an even rhythm.

“You’re beautiful,” he says. “My beautiful muse.”

His green eyes shine with something I haven’t see before. A softness, a happiness. I feel beautiful reflected in his eyes. I feel whole. And I feel myself falling more deeply for this complicated, wounded, and talented man.

During the week, Logan texts me sexy lines from erotic literary classics by writers like Colette, Anaïs Nin, Henry Miller, and the Marquis de Sade. I respond by finding images of erotic nudes and use those as replies. But not as frequently, since, as everyone knows, a picture is worth a thousand words, which is something I like to remind him of often when we banter about the differences and similarities between writing and painting.

“It all comes from the same source, of course,” he says as we zoom along narrow rural routes one Sunday afternoon Dr. T’s little Aston Martin. “The limitless creative fount bubbles up and needs to be channeled. I channel with words, you do it with images.”

“Could we switch then? I start writing, you start painting?”

“In theory, yes. But then we encounter the elements of craft. It takes a long time to master a form, thousands of hours, years, a lifetime. Most of us only have one, or perhaps two forms that we can devote that much time and attention to. We only have one life after all.”

“And in the end, we die,” I say, sadly, remembering our conversation on the balcony, and the mind-altering kiss that followed it.

“To know that death is inevitable is both a burden and a precious gift. To begin to understand death is to begin to know how to live.”

“It’s still sad to me.”

“That sadness of the heart is paired with the mystery of that truth in the mind. There’s nothing we can do in the face of the facts of living and dying. Except make art perhaps.” He takes his eyes from the road, arching an eyebrow as he looks over at me. “And love.”

My heart skips irregularly for a beat. He’s speaking of love? Real love? Not just sex, infatuation, lust?

He turns back to the road and finishes by saying, “I can’t think of a better way to get through life than making art and making love.”

He’s really just speaking of sex then. My heart sinks a little. But he’s right, too. It’s a good way to live. I’m living it right now and I’ve never been happier. Though sometimes I catch myself wondering about the depths of real love. True love. But I don’t think Logan wonders in the same way.

We pull up to the lot behind the Newshire Cobblestone Inn and Pub and Logan turns the Aston engine off.

“Doesn’t Dr. T wonder why you want to borrow his car so often?” I ask.

Logan frowns. “The first couple of times I said it was to get my mind off…stuff. To hit the back roads for inspiration. I finally had to admit I was seeing someone. He suspected anyway, but I assured him it wasn’t a student.”

“So you lied?”

“It seemed a better alternative than the truth. Plus I promised you I’d never tell him.”

“So who did you say it was?” I feel a serpent of envy uncoiling in my gut just imagining him with someone else.

“I told him it was a waitress here.”

“At
this
pub?”

He shrugs. “Why not?”

I laugh. “If I remember correctly, one waitress is a butch lesbian and the other one is a grandmother.”

Logan laughs with me. “That will keep him guessing then, won’t it?”

Before taking a room, we eat lunch. We’re more relaxed together when we’re away from campus. We laugh more. Talk more openly, and Logan doesn’t resort to his ‘act’ quite as often. His writing is going well, as is my painting. We have both been very productive between Sundays.

At the end of the meal, Logan reaches into his pocket. “I’m going to step out for a puff.”

I make a pouty face. “When are you going to quit that awful habit?”

“I’m trying. I’ve cut down to half of my usual. Give me time.” He winks and slips out the front door. I pick at the remaining chips on his plate until the white-haired grandmotherly waitress comes over to clear the table. A moment later, I hear a loud shattering crash as the tray she’s carrying fall to the floor. There’s a curse or two and a kerfuffle as helpers emerge from the kitchen.

I’m chewing on an ice cube when I hear, “Ava? What are you doing here?”

I turn and see Ronnie wearing an apron and holding a broom.

“Ronnie? You work
here
?”

I glance furtively toward the door.

“Who are you here with?” Ronnie says, eyeing the two empty beer glasses on the table.

“No one,” I say a little too quickly. The door opens and Logan returns. He heads to the front cash to settle the bill, but Ronnie sees him.

“That’s one of the college profs isn’t it? You’re not…? Ava, are you here with
him
?”

“Ronnie, just go. I’ll explain later.” He looks from me to Logan and I doubt he’ll need more explanations. He goes back to sweeping up the mess as Logan walks over and takes my hand.

“Shall we move upstairs?” he says with a devilish grin.

“Just give me a minute. I want to go to the restroom.”

“We have a private bath in our room.” He arches an eyebrow suggestively.

“It’s the beer, I can’t hold it. I’ll meet you there.”

Logan kisses me and leaves again. I look toward the kitchen. Ronnie saw all that. That hall to restroom passes the kitchen. Ronnie pops out as I walk by.

“You won’t say anything, will you?” I whisper to him.

“Of course not. Do what you want. But I should warn you that Dean Ascott comes here all the time. He has a reservation tonight.” Ronnie looks at his watch. “In an hour.”

A ripple of panic courses through me. “Thanks for letting me know.” I squeeze Ronnie’s arm. “I’ll see you in class Monday.”

Upstairs, I tell Logan I’m feeling sick from lunch and ask him to take me back to campus. I don’t want Dean Ascott to notice the Aston parked out front.

Logan’s disappointed, naturally, but he hugs me sweetly and says, “I can wait.”

On the ride back to campus I keep up my pretence of sickness, but I hate pretending. Even though I do feel kind of sick with a feeling that walls are closing in on us, on our affair. Now Ronnie knows, too. At least he was able to warn me about Dean Ascott. But we won’t be able to go back to the Newshire Inn and Pub again. We can’t risk it. We’ll have to find a different place.

I wish things weren’t so complicated. I wish it didn’t all have to be a secret! It’s hard to keep a secret so essential to who I feel myself becoming. If only we’d met a different way. If we could just wait until after I graduate. Then we could be open about it, and no one would be able to tell us what to do. I wish we could be together and not have it be wrong.

We won’t be able to meet the following Sunday, since it’s Thanksgiving, and I have to go home for the holiday. Logan’s not too happy when I stop by his office to break the news.

“Do you have to go?”

I nod. “You don’t know my father. He’d be irate if I didn’t come home.” It’s one of our biggest family traditions. I’ve never missed one in my life.

“But I need you
here
to inspire me,” he says, looking sullen and pouty, like the spoiled child he likes to accuses me of being.

“It’s only four days. You can get a lot of work done on your novel,” I say encouragingly. That’s why he took this teaching position after all. So he could write his damned novel.

He rakes his hand through his hair, clearly frustrated. Then he sighs, and says, “You’re right. I’ve got to send something to my agent soon. I have a lot of work to do before that. It’s just that after last Sunday…”

I know what he means. We didn’t get our fix of
inspiration
.

He gets up from his desk, pulls me into an embrace. I’m nervous being in his office — anyone could come in — but the feel of his arms around me is stronger than my caution.

He whispers, “I suppose the times apart make the comings together all the more electric. Pun intended. Without a little loneliness, togetherness isn’t so divine.”

His fingers tangle in my hair as he draws my lips to his. The spark of his kiss makes me tingle all over, makes me feel divine.

“Four days isn’t so long,” I murmur. I think I’m trying to convince myself. I know it will feel like forever.

“Each day without you feels twice as long as the others.”

It’s one of the sweetest, romantic things he’s ever said. Just as I’m about to give in to another delicious kiss, I hear voices and footsteps in the hall. I stiffen.

“I should go,” I say. Reluctantly, Logan drops his arms.

We’re both left feeling frustratingly aroused.

The day before I leave, Dr. T summons me to his office.

“Ava, come on in. Sit down.” His office is cozy, artsy, like a den you want to take a nap in. His gauzy curtains let in the weak autumn light creating a diaphanous yellow glow in the second floor room. I feel immediately calm in this office. I feel safe and protected.

“You’re productivity is impressive,” he says. “What’s gotten into you? Derrick and Casey aren’t selling you drugs, are they?” He laughs at his own joke. He doesn’t know I’m taking a different kind of drug, one you can’t get over or under a counter; it’s the kind you can get only get over or under another human being. I have been fueled by lust.

“I feel the pressure of the new year exhibit,” I say by way of explanation. “I need to produce a lot and I just feel lucky that I’m able to do it right now.” Geez that sounds lame.

“I’m seeing some interesting narrative themes in your recent work.” He turns his computer monitor toward me so that I can see the digital snaps I emailed him of my studio canvasses.

“This is reminiscent of Dante’s Inferno. And this one calls up themes from James Joyce’s Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. And this one makes me think of The Lady of Shallot.”

“I haven’t read those pieces.”

“That’s what’s so interesting. And I’m not saying you have to read them necessarily, but some unexpected literary elements are coming out in the work. Obviously, there are the Genesis references, the Garden of Eden and all that, and art history invocations, but the unintended literary allusions are quite unique. I’m wondering if you might benefit from some more support in that department.”

“What do you mean?”

“Are you open to consulting with a Lit mentor?”

“Um…”

“You remember the author Logan O’Shane? You showed him the way back to the faculty apartments after the meet and greet?”

I clear my throat and will a rushing tide of blood headed for my cheeks to please turn around and drain down to my feet. Of course I remember. That was the first night we… I stop my brain from going down that path.

“Um, yeah. I almost forgot that.” I smile innocently. “He’s the writer in residence, right?”

Dr. T nods happily. “A great guy. And really smart.”

Dr. T’s admiration is obvious. I clear my throat again.

“You think he’d work with me?” Work me into a frenzy is more like it.

“I’ll talk to him. I’m quite sure he’d be delighted to do me a favor, and to work with a student as artistically promising as you are.”

Is Dr. T actually pushing us together? Having an authorized excuse to be seen with Logan occasionally on campus would make this whole secret affair feel less like a crime.

“If you think that’s a good idea,” I say, trying to contain my excitement.

“It can’t hurt,” he says. “After Thanksgiving you can pull out all the stops.”

I’m feeling hopeful when I leave Rich Tennenbaum’s office. I wonder when he’ll talk to Logan. I’m not sure if I can wait. I decide to risk visiting his office again.

Crossing the quad, I see Casey. She’s standing on a bench taking pictures of an abandoned nest in a tree. Behind the tree, Derrick is filming something on the ground. Something too small for me to see.

As I get closer, Casey sees me and waves. She climbs down off the bench. Her eyeliner looks extra smeared today and seems like it’s been a while since she washed her hair.

In a slow, absent-minded drawl she says, “Hey, Ava, I’ve been meaning to return your message.”