Becoming His Muse, Complete Set (38 page)

He looks away and says, “Or not.”

I’m confused. “Or not what?”

“Or no more sneaking around.”

“But we just talked about the risks. If people find out we’ll both—“

“—What I mean, Ava… is
no more
sneaking around. No more. You work on your show and portfolio and all that and I work on teaching and finishing my novel.”

Something large and cold has taken up residence in my gut. There’s an odd buzzing in my brain as my body gets his meaning but my mind refuses to catch up.

“Sure… that’s what we’re doing now. What we’ve been doing all along.”

“Except we leave out one part.”

A sob or a scream is rising from the bottom of my lungs but still my mind won’t cooperate. “What do you mean?” My voice catches. My mind and body are on the brink of merging their understandings.

“We stop sleeping together.” His jaw is firm, his green eyes cool.

I start shaking my head — my body’s immediate denial — and say,

“Why? Why are you doing this? You’re angry I won’t go to New York with you on a whim? You want to punish me because I won’t do what you say? Because I’ve got my own ideas about my life and my choices?”

My disbelief and shock are turning to anger. I cross my arms as a wave of hurt rolls through my heart, and along with it, a desperate but futile urge to fight.

He’s shaking his head now and he looks everywhere but into my eyes.

“You’re right that we both have work to do. We’ve come this far and not been caught, so let’s stop tempting fate. The risks of our ongoing affair are high.”

“But not worth giving up completely!”

My passion’s rising but he’s gone all cool and distant.

“Creation requires sacrifice,” he says.

I forcefully drop my arms to my sides. My fists are clenched. I can’t believe he’s turning my words against me. “You are so selfish. The most selfish man in the world. I can’t believe you!”

He shrugs. The small careless gesture makes me white hot with anger.

“There comes a time when a muse’s job is done,” he says matter-of-factly. “When the creator takes the reins and steers the course alone.”

Suddenly cold and aloof, he leans back on the couch, refusing to make eye contact. My passion ebbs. The fight goes out of me. I feel stabbed in the heart. I shake my head in disbelief as silent tears slide down my cheeks. I push them away mercilessly.

A thought occurs to me, a truthful thought.

“A muse’s job is never done,” I say.

But I put the mantle of the muse down, stand up, and walk toward the door. I walk away from Logan.

With my head held high and my eyes blurry with tears I walk out of his apartment. I don’t care who sees me. I only know I can’t look back.

I gave him everything. Every part of my body. Every part of my heart. Every part of my being. And still it wasn’t enough.

I cry myself to sleep that night. In the morning, I have a hard time making sense of what happened the night before. I send Logan a text telling him I want to talk. He doesn’t reply.

Another day goes by without seeing him or talking to him. The next day, dragging myself to classes, I see him across the quad walking and laughing with Sheriann and some other writing students.

I don’t get out of bed the next day, or the next.

Ruby comes to see me. So does Jonathan.

On the third day, Ronnie and Owen make an appearance.

The next day, Dr. T slides a note under my door.

On the fifth day, Madeleine knocks. She keeps knocking until I shuffle to the door and greet her with extremely dirty hair and make up that’s so embedded in my splotched skin it’s given my skin a gray tinge, or maybe that’s the diet of dry goods I’ve been eating out of the various carb foods left by my friends — cereal, crackers, rice cakes, cookies.

Madeleine smiles big, her dark eyes appraising me as if I look like a million bucks, and plows through my door on her crutches.

“It’s rank in here,” she says, still smiling.

I shuffle past her toward my bed. She lays one crutch across my duvet to block my imminent face-plant back into my sheets. It doesn’t take much of an effort to push it away, but it’s the most energy I’ve exerted all week.

“I saw you leave Logan’s apartment the other night.”

A part of me registers that I should feel something like alarm or panic. That I should try to explain myself, come up with a viable excuse for what I might have been doing there, at least acknowledge that Madeleine’s a faculty member and deserving of some respect. But I only grunt and wrap myself in my blankets. I go through the motions of crying for a few minutes even though I’ve already used up my tears. Madeleine hobbles toward my bar fridge, pulls out the Brita filter and pours me a glass. I am awed that there is water in my fridge. Ronnie or Owen must have filled it up.

Madeleine manages to deliver a glass of water on crutches. I’m impressed.

“You must be dehydrated,” she says. I drink the water simply because she made such an effort to get it to me. It tastes very good. I consider getting up for more.

“So, as I said. I saw you coming out of Professor O’Shane’s apartment about a week ago, but more importantly, I’ve not seen you go back in.”

She waits for me to say something. It feels like a trap. But I don’t care right now. Obviously, I don’t care much about anything.

“He’s talked to you about us?”

She furrows her brow. “No.”

“But you know?”

“I think my assumptions are correct.”

I raise an eyebrow.

She adds, “I’ve tried talking to him this week but…”

I perk up. I can’t help myself, “How… how is he?…” I feel so pathetic but I just want to know he’s all right.

“Morose,” says Madeleine. “He’s writing a lot. In his office. His students interrupt him often and he dons his hat and spins his act for them. He only comes back to the apartment to sleep and shower. Which is more than you’re doing for yourself.”

I grit my teeth and look away. “He’s more selfish than I am.”

“Remember he’s the teacher and you’re the student.”

I’m guessing that now I’m going to get the lecture, the one that leads into, “I’ll report, you two. This is against institutional policy, etcetera, etcetera.” But Madeline just adds, “You could learn something from him.”

I look at her now. Instead of seeing judgment and concern, her expression is open, smiling.

“What do you mean? Aren’t you mad? Aren’t you going to slap my wrists?”

Madeleine closes her eyes and a little of the brightness in the room dims. She shakes her head.

“Oh, Ava. The rules that hold some people in place are meant for them. Those who choose to break the rules have something else to learn. It might not always go as planned, but those are the risks. And the benefits.”

I’m trying to follow what she’s saying, but she’s not done. “What is Logan doing right now that you’re not?”

“I don’t care what he’s doing.” I pout.

“Answer the question.”

“You just said he’s writing a lot. I’m not doing that…”

“Right. An artist might be abandoned by love, or friendship, or the approval of society, but a true artist never abandons her work.”

I fall back onto my bed and pull the covers over my head. “I’m not a true artist,” I moan.

From under my blankets, I hear Madeleine
tsk
several times.

“You’re forgetting that you are. I’m here to remind you.”

I shake my head under the covers but she can’t see me.

“Get up, Ava. Get in the shower. We’re going to the studio.”

“Huh?” I peek out.

“We’re going to the studio—I’ve got it booked—and you’re going to paint and I’m going to sit for you.”

“What?” I sit up now. Two things have surprised me: Madeleine’s managed to book the studio for me in the middle of the day; and she’s offered to model for me? I feel more than obligated to get out of bed. But what if…

“I can’t.
He’s
the reason my painting has improved. I won’t be able to do it.”

“I don’t believe you.” I see a twinkling challenge in her eyes. “Prove me wrong.”

After I take a much needed shower, we walk over to Mick’s for burgers. Madeleine’s convinced I need some protein and I can’t argue with her. We sit in a booth and talk quietly.

“I was in your position once,” she says. “In fact, that’s in large part why I became a professor. I was once in love with one.”

“You had an affair while you were in college?”

She nods. “There weren’t policies in place to prevent it, but it was socially shameful enough that it hardly ever happened. And Malcom— Professor Tomlin, I should say—was much, much older than I. Freud would say I had a father complex, which was probably true, since my dad died when I was three.”

“Oh, that’s sad.”

“It is, but it’s surprising how much sadder life can become.”

I feel pretty sad about Logan right now. I couldn’t imagine being sadder.

We pay for our burgers and head to the studio. I set up my easel and paints while Madeleine undresses and gets herself up on the podium.

She looks beautiful and raw wrapped in a thin silk scarf. She is not as confident as my student models, but her willingness to do this, to draw me out of my depression, touches me deeply.

We talk as I paint.

“What was he like? Professor Tomlin—Malcolm.”

“Tall, a bit scruffy, very well read.” Her face softens a bit as she thinks. “He was passionate and thoughtful in the bedroom,” she adds, blushing the tiniest bit.

“Did he love you?”

“I think so. I certainly loved him. Or I thought I did.”

I sketch her changing expressions. My movements are a bit stiff but I’m beginning to warm up.

“You don’t think it was real love?”

She looks down at her bare toes. “It’s all love.” She sighs. “Any deep connection with another human being is a form of love. That’s what I believe anyways.”

I stop sketching for a moment and look at her. “What about your husband? Did you love him?”

A series of emotions complicates her features. Finally, she sighs. “Yes. I still do. Though maybe not in the same way anymore.”

“It was terrible what he did to you.”

“Was it? It hurt, yes. It was a shock, true. But I could see that it was another form of love for him. He felt so terrible about it. And confused. But that’s what love does. It catches us off guard.”

“I can’t believe you’re so understanding.”

“If you really love someone you love all of them, and you let them go when the time comes.”

I could see her eyes start to fill with tears.

“I didn’t mean to upset you. Do you want to stop?”

She shakes her head. A few tears fall. “No. Keep painting, Ava. Paint whatever you see.”

I do, and out of that emerges one of my best paintings to date. I can hardly believe it. As I dip my brushes and fill the canvas edge to edge, my creativity flows strongly and easily. It’s not dependent on Logan after all. He helped me improve, yes, to take risks, and push my boundaries, but I was the one who grew and changed, who became a better artist by letting him assist in my becoming. Such a gift is priceless, even if the cost is a broken heart. Because no one can take that gift away.

I spend the next couple of weeks finishing my paintings for the show. I imagine Logan is doggedly working on his novel. I don’t try to contact him. He has his work to do and I have mine. I still hurt. I’m still confused by his rejection. I still miss him. But at least I’ve recovered my love of painting. I carry my Tiffany bracelet in my pocket. When I’m not painting, I wear it as the token of hope and true love it will always be for me.

The week before the year-end show, I have the studio to myself for an entire afternoon. I’m working on the painting that Jonathan first posed for but I’m having trouble with the position of the figure’s legs. I keep messing things up and I realize I may not be able to fix the flaws without a model’s help. Putting down my brush, I pick up my phone to call Jenny. Maybe one of her actor friends will pose for beer again. I can’t afford to pay anyone these days. My father has severely limited my access to funds since I informed him of my plans for New York. He mistakenly believes that making me suffer financially might make me change my mind. I admit it’s inconvenient but it’s also good practice for my future in New York, where I will have to live very frugally so I can afford to buy paint.

Before I punch in Jenny’s number, I hear a knock at the door. Slowly, the door opens, and when I see who’s there, my heart does a kind of somersault, back flip, face-plant combination that leaves me feeling slightly queasy.

“What are you doing here?” I say.

Logan walks in. Not with his usual sloping stride, but with timid, cautious steps. I haven’t seen him in weeks.

Looking sheepish, he says, “You probably hate me right now…”

I’m feeling a lot of things but hate isn’t one of them. I look away from him, to gather myself. I stare at my nearly finished painting. He walks up beside me, remaining about half a step back, just behind my left shoulder, and he looks at the painting, too.

“It’s good, Ava.”

I shrug. “I can’t finish it without a live model.” I start to wipe off my brushes. I don’t feel like painting anymore.