Sexton Brothers Box Set

by Lauren Runow

  “Thank you for the beautiful note,” she responds.

  I can picture her biting the inside of her cheek.

  I wish I could have seen the look on her face when she saw it, but I knew it was best for her to wake up alone, like I did the first time. I wanted her to feel what I felt, if only for a few minutes.

  I was tempted to leave nothing and just call her later, but I couldn’t do it. Instead, I left her a note with a drawing I’d sketched quickly of her lying asleep and looking absolutely gorgeous.

  “You’re welcome. You looked so content, sleeping. I didn’t want to wake you.”

  “I see you cleaned up our little mess, too.”

  I can hear the smile in her voice, and it makes my cock twitch slightly.

  “I didn’t want to upset your roommate. I’d be pissed if I came home to chocolate all over my counter.”

  I hear a school bell ring in the background of her call.

  “I have to go. I just wanted to call and say thank you. Okay, well, bye.” Her words are fast.

  “Hey, Harper.” I catch her before she hangs up.

  “Yeah?”

  “I like the thank you much better said than written.”

  She laughs under her breath before she hangs up the phone, and I stick it in my pocket just as Ryan and Chris cross the lawn in front of Uris Hall.

  “What’s up?” I say as we clap hands.

  “Where were you last night?” Ryan asks.

  I raise my eyebrows with a shit-eating grin but don’t say anything besides, “I went to the library.”

  Chris looks at me with disgust. “God, you’re lame. Who looks that excited to go to the library? Unless checking out a book is code for checking out a hot blonde. Or hit the stacks means hit it in the stacks. Or Dewey decimal system means do we dess … yeah, I got nothing.”

  Ryan looks at Chris with a disappointed shake of his head. “It’s shocking that women go home with you.”

  Chris hits him in the arm. Ryan punches him back. I start walking toward my class.

  “For the record, I actually did go to the library. With Harper.”

  “Shut up. Did you have another one-night stand?” Chris asks.

  “It’s not a one-night stand if it happens twice,” Ryan explains and then turns to me. “So, Harper as in the girl who ghosted you? You found her?”

  “She found me,” I say as I open the door. “And that’s all I’m going to say about that.”

  “You can’t leave us hanging.” Ryan is on my heels.

  “I can, and I just did.”

  As Ryan heads in his opposite direction, Chris and I are off to Marketing Strategies. These halls have been my home away from home for four and a half years. Since I didn’t want to go home over the summers, I enrolled in classes and wound up with enough credits to graduate last year. When I realized this, I enrolled myself in the five-year joint bachelor/master’s program and started toward that degree.

  Yes, that’s right; I opted to stay in school. Most guys my age can’t wait to finish and live life as an adult. I get it; trust me. Writing papers, taking long tests, and doing presentations to a lecture hall full of people looking down at their smartphones aren’t exactly my ideas of a good time.

  I have my own reasons for kicking it around here a little longer, and, yes, it has everything to do with having to take on the roll of being Tanner Sexton in a city where my name actually means something.

  Chris and I take seats in one of the smaller lecture halls. He takes out his notebook and slides in a wireless earbud. With his foot beating to the music, he waits for the professor to start the class.

  I open my backpack and take out my laptop. As it’s running, I look inside for the charger and see a book sitting on the bottom. It’s the copy of To Kill a Mockingbird I checked out from the library.

  What are the odds I’d meet a girl named after the author?

  “Hey, Tanner.” Laney Schultz slides into the seat next to me.

  “Hey, Nebraska,” I say.

  “Hi, Laney.” Chris leans over in his seat and practically pushes me over, careening his body closer to the brunette from the Cornhusker State.

  She politely half-smiles at Chris and then puts her attention back toward me. “I was looking for you last week at the Den.”

  “I went to a bar on the Upper East Side.” I motion toward Chris. “This guy wanted to play with the grown-ups.”

  Chris lets out a grunt. “This prick’s the only one who got lucky.”

  Laney’s eyes widen. “Oh. Well, that’s cool. Anyone special?”

  I look down at the book in my hand and smile. “Yeah. She’s pretty cool.”

  She angles her body completely in my direction and rests an arm over my seat. Her breasts are leaning into my side, and I know it’s intentional.

  “Whatcha got there?” she asks. Her fingers skim on top of mine as she takes the book from my hand. “Oh, we had to read this in high school. I didn’t understand the hype.”

  “It’s the world through the eyes of a child. Her father puts everything on the line to defend an innocent man accused of a crime. It’s pretty powerful,” I respond.

  She smiles. “It’s a good book. It just seems like it’s built up more than it should be.”

  “It’s because of when it was written. In 1960, racial injustice was a taboo topic. Lee took a powerful stance when she penned such a prolific novel. It’s gripping, heart-wrenching, and—”

  “Wow, you’re really into literature,” Laney states.

  Chris pops his head back up from where he was slumping in his seat. “You’ve been going to school with this guy for four years, and you’re just realizing this now?”

  I run a hand over my hair. I take the book back from her. “Sorry. I get carried away.”

  She sweeps her long, dark hair from one shoulder to the next and then plays with the fabric at the neckline of her shirt. “It’s okay. I think guys who read are sexy.” Her teeth skim her bottom lip.

  Laney’s always been flirty, but lately, it feels like she’s been kicking it up a notch.

  I put the book back in my bag and turn on my computer. “So does the girl I’m seeing.”

  The comment makes Laney’s hand stop. She sits back in her seat and takes a giant breath.

  “Dude, what the fuck are you doing?” Chris whispers into my ear. “Laney is fucking hot and practically telling you she wants you to do her every way to next Tuesday. She’d let you fuck her while you read Tolstoy, for Christ’s sake.”

  The professor raises his head from his desk and starts the lecture. I open my class notes and pick up where we left off last.

  Chris’s back falls hard into his chair as he shakes his head. “This chick had better be worth it.”

  I hope so, too.

  11

  HARPER

  I’m late to work. As I walk off the bus, I can only blame myself. When I get wrapped up in a good book, I tend to forgo sleep just to read another chapter.

  I woke up this morning to April standing over me, making me realize I’d slept through my alarm.

  I have seven minutes to make it to my classroom before my students do.

  I’m rushing past the shop where I get my morning coffee and speed-walk around the corner. A vibrant green catches my eye, forcing me to stop in my tracks. On a fence that borders a work zone and scaffolding of a nearby building is a painted version of the tree that graces the cover of To Kill a Mockingbird.

  It’s as tall as the fence, about seven feet high. The way the dark tree trunk stands strong with its branches outstretched to the right with all the leaves painted brightly and individually—the stark contract makes the entire piece stunning.

  Tanner …

  He knows where I live and the route I take to work. It’s way too coincidental this art is anyone but him. I tried to hint to the door he’d painted, but he never picked up on it. Actually, he never mentioned anything about it.

  Maybe he likes leaving me these little clu
es. Lord knows I love it.

  Not just the art, but also the message I think he’s trying to portray from the first night we met.

  “You’re my muse.”

  I pick up my phone, tempted to text him and tell him how beautiful I think the tree is, but something stops me. If he’s creating these images for me, why doesn’t he want to make it known? Yes, I know it’s illegal, but it’s art.

  I think back to the biography I finished last night about Jackson Pollock. Some people consider his radical, abstract style to be creative, whereas others call it junk.

  Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. One man might see it in a portrait of a dead flower. Others find beauty in a folded napkin. I notice that with my students. Some can be very creative while others struggle with the small art projects we do in class.

  I get an idea and pick up my step to get to class a little quicker, so I can make a slight change to today’s schedule.

  When the kids arrive, we start quickly on their planned lesson. When they leave for lunch, I spend the time preparing my classroom, so when they come back, the desks are covered in every art supply I could get my hands on.

  They know I can barely draw a stick figure, so I’m not surprised when Quinton approaches my desk, asking, “Are we having a special instructor or something today?”

  I laugh and stand up, greeting the other students walking by before answering him, “We’re changing things up this afternoon.”

  They take their seats at their desks, which are grouped into sets of six. It’s an excellent way to have them work together and give each other feedback. I’m at the smart board, and I ask the kids to read out loud the words I have written.

  In unison, they all say, “What is art?”

  “I want you to really consider that.” I pause, letting it sink in. “Quinton, what is art?”

  He looks at me like I’m crazy before shrugging. “Art is something you paint.”

  I nod. “It is.” I ask another student, “Ariella, what is art?”

  “It’s something you hang on a wall.”

  I point to Jackson. “What is art?”

  He laughs. “I don’t know. A statue. Like the Duke Ellington one with the grand piano on Fifth Avenue.”

  “Oh, yeah, and the Frederick Douglass Memorial in the park. That’s art,” Quinton shouts.

  With a smile, I nod. “Yes. Rita, what’s art?”

  “My little brother’s coloring pages. My mom hangs them all over the house.”

  I tap Malik on the shoulder. “What is art?”

  “I don’t know. A picture.” He sounds noncommittal.

  “What kind of picture?” I prod.

  He’s looking down at his desk. “Like the kind you take with your iPhone.”

  I shake his shoulders a little. “Yes! That is totally art. Snapchat counts.”

  Malik’s head twists around to look at me with a face like he’s wondering why I’m bullshitting him.

  “You know this, guys. It’s not a trick question. Naveah, what is art?”

  She smiles. “The world. God created the world in seven days. His creation is the most beautiful form of art.”

  Not what I was looking for, but, “I’ll take it. Come on, guys. What is art?”

  Shawn, a quiet kid who doesn’t participate often in classroom discussion, raises his hand. I try to hide my surprise as I nod to him to answer.

  “Art is something someone creates?” Shawn says shyly.

  I smile. “Is that a statement or a question?”

  “Both?” He laughs.

  “Perfect answer,” I say, and he grins bashfully. I go back to the smart board and pull up a collage of various forms of art. “That’s exactly what I want you to consider. Art is an expression. It’s an application of human skill. It can be a painting or a sculpture. It can be the way you apply your makeup or a song you sing. It’s literature and dance.” I pull up another screen, and it’s a watercolor of a landscape. “What do you think of this image?”

  Ariella is the first to raise her hand. “It’s beautiful. Very soothing. My grandma has something like that in her living room.”

  I change the slide to one of the graffiti images in our neighborhood—another I assume Tanner created. I took it with my phone a few weeks ago. “Malik, what do you think of this one?”

  He looks at the dark shadows of the boy who is sitting against a wall with his knees pulled up to his chest and his head bowed. “The kid looks completely lost. Alone.”

  “How does it make you feel?” I ask, stepping to the side so that everyone can see the complete image. There’s a dove on the boy’s shoulder. It’s pulling him up by his sweatshirt with a bright yellow light behind it.

  Malik turns his head to the side. “It’s really sad because the boy is crying. Like he has no one. But that bird, it’s like it’s trying to get him out of whatever funk he’s in. So, it’s sad, but it kinda makes you feel okay at the same time.”

  I grin and continue. I show them various forms of art without displaying anything sexual or overly graphic and elicit every emotion I can from them. When teaching inner-city kids who are left to their own devices most of the time, sometimes, I have trouble getting through to them. But, right now, I see it.

  They are thinking, questioning the words that I’m saying.

  This is why I teach.

  I want to open their minds, so they think for themselves and see the world for more than what they are handed day to day.

  “If someone creates something they are proud of, they can call it art, right?” I ask.

  The class nods.

  “But what if you don’t like it? Is it still art?”

  I pull up a Jackson Pollock piece. I hear a few laughs at the image of paint splattered.

  Natalia calls out, “I could do that!”

  I smile, remembering my first night with Tanner when I created a similar piece. “You can. What would you say if I told you this painting sold for a hundred and forty million dollars back in 2006?”

  The entire class gasps.

  “No way!” Quinton says.

  I laugh. “Yep, it sure did.” I change the slide. “What about this?”

  The kids stare at the picture of a piece of hair lying vertically, covered with clear tape. Through the tape, the artist’s fingerprints show slightly.

  Finally, Nate speaks up. “What is that?”

  “It’s art!” I say with a slight inflection to my voice.

  “How is that art?” Malik speaks up.

  “Well, the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art thought it was worth owning in their collection. This piece is by Gabriel Orozco, Untitled.”

  “It’s untitled because it’s tape and a piece of hair. Why would they want to own that? Please don’t tell me that’s worth millions,” Quinton says.

  “I actually don’t know the value of this, but I do know that some of his pieces are valued at two to three hundred thousand.”

  “That’s it. I’m becoming an artist,” Nate yells out, dropping his pencil on the table in a drop the mic moment.

  The entire class laughs.

  “Sorry, Nate. Not all artists are paid like that. Some amazing artists only get seen when they paint on the sides of buildings.”

  “Like the graffiti that’s painted outside,” Malik says.

  “Exactly, like that graffiti. Don’t you think those pieces took more talent than these?”

  The entire class agrees.

  “And do you think that artist made a dime to paint that?”

  They all shake their heads.

  “So then, why are all of these art supplies on our table?” Quinton asks.

  “I want you all to think outside the box. Be as creative as you possibly can by not using what you think are the typical art rules. You see these pieces making big money, yet the beautiful pieces outside will probably be painted over and forgotten by next month. I want you to create something, anything, that is uniquely you, and then we’ll hang them around the room a
nd judge them based on creativity and thinking outside the box. You can use anything you see in front of you. The only rule is, you have to be different.”

  The excitement in the kids’ eyes lights my own artistic abilities ablaze. I see the fire I felt when I was painting at Tanner’s reflected back at me. I never truly understood art, but that’s because I didn’t understand the passion behind it.

  Thanks to Tanner, now, I do.

  Seeing my students create is one of the best moments I’ve had as a teacher. The pride they show as they hang their art around the room makes every day I struggle to break through to them totally worth it.

  After bus duty and when the last student is on their way home, I head back up to my classroom. Where, earlier, I was hesitant to call Tanner, now, I’m more than sure.

  “Sweet Harper,” he croons, and I’m wondering why the hell I waited so long to call him. “I was wondering when you’d call me again.”

  “You know, you could have called me,” I tease.

  “Ball’s in your court. You said it yourself; you’re just coming off a relationship. I don’t want to rush you.” His words are sincere.

  “A girl could take that as disinterest.”

  “A lesser woman would.”

  I cover my face to hide my smile even though he can’t see me. “I want to thank you … again.”

  “The last two times you thanked me were each after we spent the night together.”

  A slight shiver runs up my spine at the mention. I ignore his comment and start talking. I tell him all about my day with the art projects my students created and the way their faces beamed.

  “That’s amazing. You gave them the greatest lesson they’ll ever walk away with. Pride.” He sounds genuinely impressed. It makes my stomach flip. “But why are you thanking me?”

  “You’re the one who opened my eyes to what art really is. I always appreciated it. I love architecture and literature and a beautiful painting. But you showed me what it can do for your heart. What it can do for your soul.”

  I can practically hear him smiling on the other end.

  “That makes me happier than you can imagine, but there’s no need to thank me. What happened today was all you, Harper. You created that moment all on your own. I just put the brush in your hand.”