Becoming His Muse, Complete Set (47 page)

I nod. “But none of it matters now. It’s over. He’s gone. School’s over. It’s time for a new beginning.” They don’t press me for more information. They know I’ve been through a lot already.

Jonathan holds up his beer. “Here’s to new beginnings!”

As we toast and guzzle, Sheriann walks in, sees us, and heads to our booth. I don’t know who invited her. I send a mock glare Ruby’s way. She shrugs innocently, a ‘wasn’t me’ look on her face.

Sighing heavily, Sheriann plops down on the edge of the booth next to Owen, forcing him to squish even closer to Ronnie.

“I just met with Dean Ascott. He’s marked my exposé paper himself and is giving it an ‘A’ but only if I bury it. He made me sign something. I can’t even
talk
about it.”

I smile to myself, wondering if my father had anything to do with that. For once, I’m grateful for his meddling.

“Oh, well. I’ll find something else to write about.” She takes a swig for Owen’s beer and looks over at Jenny. “I bet
you’ve
got some good stories.”

Jenny laughs and begins to recount one. I slip out of the booth to go to the restroom.

Ronnie follows, catching up to me as I’m passing the bar.

“Listen, Ava, I know what you did for me.”

“I didn’t do anything for you, Ronnie.”

“You won that award fair and square, and then you gave it up for me.”

I sigh and lean against the bar. “I’m beginning to wonder if anything in life is fair and square. I’ll never know if my father being on the board, him being friends with the Dean, and the Dean knowing the judges, had anything to do with the final results.”

“I’m sure it didn’t. Your work is amazing, Ava. All on its own.”

I hold up my hand to stop him. I’m not looking for praise.

“What I do know for sure is that you came in second place fair and square. I didn’t step out just because I think you deserve it more than I do.” He’s gearing up to protest, but I shake my head, because that’s not the point I’m trying to make.

“I’m going to try to make it on my own, Ronnie. As you know, I’ve had a lot handed to me. You haven’t. You really
earned
this award with your hard work and talent. Don’t you dare walk away from it.”

He grins. “Hey, if it’s not going to you, I don’t want it to go to anyone else.” He slides his arm around my shoulder. “Don’t worry, hon. Things have a way of working out better than any of us can imagine.”

He can’t know how much I’m counting on that.

“In fact,” he continues. “I just found out my uncle has a friend who’s got a place in the Bronx and he’ll be away for the summer. If you want, we can share.”

I laugh. “I just might take you up on that.”

“So what
are
you going to do now?”

I shrug. “I don’t know.” There’s no harm in keeping more secret.

The next morning. I leave campus without saying goodbye to anyone.

I have just enough money left in my account to buy a ticket to New York, a few subway tickets, and a couple of meals.

On the train, I tuck my bag and one wrapped painting onto the overhead shelf and then I settle into my seat and pull out the thick envelope I’ve been hauling around. Written on the back of the envelope, in Lowell’s handwriting, is an address in Soho. I’ve already memorized it.

As the train pulls out of the station, I flip through the bound galley pages. A passage catches my eye.

He had never felt this way about anyone before. Not even himself. It was a feeling as raw and brutal and encompassing as the awareness of death, as the bone chilling realization of his own mortality.

I flip a few more pages.

Liam leaned toward Anna. He had only one thing on his mind. “Aren’t you dying to get out of here?”

Immune to Liam’s charm, her gaze flitted about the room.

“
You mean, together?” She laughed, and Liam felt as if the toothpick she was holding has just pierced his heart. He turned away, mortified.

He knew he wasn’t worthy of such a woman, but no one else was supposed to know it. He poured on the slick charm, trying to shock and intimidate, trying to corner her into his seductive trap. The one thing on his mind was overpowering him with a vengeance. He was determined to have her. Even if he had to break her.

I close the pages, not sure if I’m ready to read this. I watch the scenery roll by. Verdant fields, blossoming shrubs, turned-over earth ready to be planted.

Does his writing matter that much? It does and it doesn’t. It matters because he created it, and it takes effort to create things. I told him that once. Yes, it matters. Not because of what it is but because of where it came from, and how it was created. Inspiration, experience, change. And the courage to create something that didn’t exist before.

I take a deep breath and begin on page one.

Hours later, I arrive at Penn Station and take the Subway to Soho. After a few wrong turns, I find the address. I like his building immediately, a narrow reddish brownstone half-covered in ivy.

I buzz the number listed beside the name O’Shane. My heart is ricocheting inside my chest. I have no idea what I’m going to say or do when I see him. I tell myself I’ll
know
what to say or do
when
I see him.

I shift from foot to foot as the ringer repeats tinnily through the intercom. After a dozen rings it stops. I hit the button again. Same thing. He’s not home?

I should have called him to tell him I was coming. I had some romantic notion that I would arrive on his doorstep and he would sweep me into his arms and drown me in relieved kisses. I step back from the intercom and look up at the building. His apartment is on the top floor but I have no idea which one it is.

I pull out my phone and dial his number. It rings and rings with no answer until it switches to voicemail. Is he away?

Feeling dejected I turn away from the building. It’s dusk. Soon it will be dark. What should I do? I don’t have enough money for a hotel. At least it’s a balmy spring evening.

I start walking up 5
^th
Avenue toward the Empire State Building. I can’t think of what else to do. I’ll walk until some inspiration comes to me.

My mind is full of Logan’s story. I’m nowhere near finished— it’s long and dense. But it’s full of details I recognize. There is a kissing scene on a balcony, an art opening in New York, a mother in Florida.

The character of Anna is artistic, serious, and idealistic. Liam is moody, intelligent, and full of secrets. They see something in each other that they can’t find in themselves. I’m struck by how sad and scared Liam is, how terrified he is to share the truth of his soul with Anna. And she’s scared too but she doesn’t know it. She’s buoyed up by waves of youth and promise, her ideals as lofty and taut as balloons at risk of bursting. They are on a journey together and I have no idea how it ends.

When I make it to the Empire State Building, the line’s so long I don’t even consider going up, even though tonight would be a wonderful night to look down on the brightly lit city.
A sea of human-made stars
.

I continue walking, my mind full of lines like that from Logan’s novel.

Soon I find myself approaching the central library. Its imposing pillars and carved lions anchor this stretch of 5
^th
Avenue. It’s closed now, but I hear music coming from somewhere. I think it’s coming from behind the library. I walk west along 40
^th
toward Bryant Park. I definitely hear music. It sounds like “Moon River”.

And then I see a great stream of light and hordes of people on chairs and blankets all looking up at a big screen. Black and white images flit across the screen. Audrey Hepburn, with her bouffant hair, pouts in a taxi while George Peppard gives her a talking to:

“You know what's wrong with you, Miss Whoever-you-are? You're chicken, you've got no guts. You're afraid to stick out your chin and say, "Okay, life's a fact, people do fall in love, people do belong to each other, because that's the only chance anybody's got for real happiness." You call yourself a free spirit, a "wild thing," and you're terrified somebody's gonna stick you in a cage. Well baby, you're already in that cage. You built it yourself.”

It’s a sign. Wandering around New York I’ve stumbled across an outdoor screening of Breakfast at Tiffany’s? It has to be a sign.

As if to confirm the butterflies in my stomach, my phone buzzes.

I’m convinced it’s going to be Logan, but when I look at my phone the message is from a number I don’t recognize.

Ava. I just wanted to say thank you. The suit’s been dropped. Publication is going ahead. I’m very grateful for your help.

It must be Lowell. I drop my bag on a cement ledge at the edge of the fray of movie goers. I set my wrapped canvas down and type back.

I’m here. In New York. Where’s Logan?

Really? He’s giving a reading.

Lowell includes the address of a bookstore. It’s only a few blocks from where I’m standing.

I smile. Of course it is. I followed my nose, or rather my heart, and I was led almost right to him. The butterflies in my stomach multiply.

Lowell texts again:
Are you coming?

I tuck my phone into my purse without answering, pick up my bag and run-walk the two blocks up and three blocks over.

Through the windows of the bookstore, I can see that the room is packed. Shelves and tables have been moved aside for chairs, which are all filled. People stand at the back and on either side of the arranged chairs.

Logan stands at a podium reading from a stack of pages. This time there is no ashtray. There is no Fedora. There is barely any ‘act’. He wears a button-down shirt, untucked, and khaki trousers.

I see Lowell and Lisle sitting off to the side up front. I find a standing room spot back of the audience. Someone shifts over to make room for me. She whispers, “He’s reading from his new novel. It’s not out yet, but boy, is it good.”

I smile and listen. The audience is rapt as Logan reads — that’s one thing that hasn’t changed; he really can woo an audience. But the timbre of his voice, and his presence, are gentler and deeper now. He looks and sounds almost like a different man.

Every so often, he bites his thumb nail, a gesture harkening back to his smoking days. More often, he seems to reach for his hat, a movement he covers by running his fingers through his hair, which musses it up and makes locks fall over his eyes requiring more raking of fingers and, all in all, gives him a sexy, preoccupied charm. The arrogance is gone. A clear confidence and authority remains. While he used to feed off his audience’s attention, adoration, and the stroking and massaging of his ego, now he seems to respect them. As if he’s taking less and giving more. As if he’s no longer playing the role of the writer, but just being himself. Genuine and honest.

My stomach’s in knots as I watch him. My heart twists anxiously. He hasn’t seen me yet. I stay still and listen to the rest of the reading, as I’ve already missed most of it.

“
They stared at each other, panting and frightened. Liam lifted his hand, to imply a truce, but the movement made Anna flinch. The fear in her eyes cracked Liam to his core.
He
had done that. Broken and destroyed all that he loved in the world.

“
I’m sorry.” The words croaked from his lips.

She backed away from him. When she was far enough, she turned and ran. He crumpled to the floor, unable to watch her flee, unwilling to accept he was the cause.

He nearly died that night. Turned inside out by the tempest of his past, he roved an inward dark wood full of despair until he came to the edge of a cliff inside himself. He had no idea it was there yet he knew he had to step off it and free fall into oblivion. He did.

Waking the next morning was like birth. Wet, messy, painful. But there was breath in his lungs and hope in his heart. A most unfamiliar sensation. And he knew it was her. She had gotten inside him and lodged there in that pulsing place he thought he had locked away for good. That would be his penance. To carry her as hope in his heart forever, though he might never see her again.”