When their laughter and excitement dies down, the professor shakes Wolfgang’s hand and welcomes him to the show. The invitation is of no surprise to me or anyone else in the room. Wolfgang has always excelled in the art arena.
Professor Turner meanders back to the front desk and opens his briefcase.
“Thank you everyone for your work,” he states, pulling out a small stack of papers from the leather case. “Please take your pieces with you now if you can. If not, be sure to have them removed by the end of the day. The staff will be cleaning out this space over the break, and they have been instructed to dispose of anything left behind. If you will be showing at the gallery, please be sure to stop by my desk and pick up a sheet for instructions on setup times. Everyone else, I hope to see you there, supporting your fellow classmates.”
The weight of defeat settles in, like a sinking battleship in the middle of the ocean. I turn on my heel and take one more look at my work—a bodice of Foster covered in everything he emanates. I love this piece, yet it wasn’t good enough.
“Sorry, EJ,” Wolfgang consoles at my side. “It’s still really good.”
“But not great,” I say with resolve.
“You know art is subjective and not everyone sees the same piece the same way.”
“I do.” I ball my hands into fists. “But damn, if I didn’t subjectively want this.”
“I wanted it for you, too.” He sympathetically rubs my back. “Are you breaking it down now or coming back later?”
“Later would be better.” I gather my bag from the nearby table. “I need a break.”
“C’mon then.”
With an arm draped over my shoulder, Wolfgang leads me to the front of room and toward the exit.
“Aren’t you two forgetting something?” Professor Turner calls to us as we reach the threshold.
Stopping in our tracks, we both glance behind us where our teacher is sitting at the desk, holding out a sheet of paper.
“Right,” Wolfgang says, leaving my side and taking the instruction sheet in his hand.
“You wouldn’t want to forget that.” Professor Turner peers around my friend. “Ms. Cunning?”
Wolfgang backs away from the desk and says to me in passing, “I’ll just wait outside.”
“Thanks.” I pause at the edge of the desk, remembering his request from earlier. “Sorry. You wanted to see me?”
“I did.” Professor Turner holds out one of the instructional sheets for the gallery showing. “You should take one of these, too.”
“But I thought…” I reply, staring at the tempting white paper.
“This is conditional.”
“What do you mean?”
“Your work is good, very good, but you can do better. I’ve seen you do better.”
I’m befuddled. “You’ve seen me do better? I’m sorry, Professor, but this is the first class I’ve ever had with you. I’m confused.”
“Don’t look so surprised, EJ. I do my research on each and every one of my students, including you.” He takes a look at the work still remaining on the floor. “I want to know who I’m backing in my gallery, and I’m confident you have more in you than you’re showing. I’ve looked at your slides from previous classes and spoken with the rest of the staff.”
“I had no idea.”
“Of course you didn’t. I don’t exactly announce it to everyone.”
“And your sleuthing is the reason you’re offering me this?” I ponder, hanging on his every word.
“That, and the fact that you’re even in this class in the first place. You do realize that this is an upper-level course for fine art majors, not art history ones?” He lifts his brows, challenging me. “I’m actually surprised you’re in this class in the first place and curious how you managed it.”
“A lot of hard work and determination,” I tell him plainly.
“Ah, a passion.” He taps my hand with the instructional page, urging me to take it, and I do. “That’s what I figured.”
I peruse the instructions, and my blood begins to loudly echo each pump from my heart into my ears.
“The show is in one week,” Professor Turner continues. “If you can improve on your work in that time and illustrate more passion, I’d be willing to grant you a spot. You have to prove it though.”
“A new piece?”
“If you like. Or work from what you already have.”
“That’s not a lot of time.”
“Are you not interested?” He turns over his palm, willing to take back his offer.
“No, I am,” I state quickly, inching the paper closer to my body.
“I thought you might be.” He rises from his chair. “Just email me when you are ready for me to have a look at what you’ve got. I’ll be around over the break.”
“Thanks,” I utter in a tiny state of shock. “Will do.”
“Good luck, EJ.” The professor picks up his briefcase and exits the classroom.
A few moments later, Wolfgang joins me in the classroom. “What was that all about?”
“He’s giving me a second chance,” I state, showing him the paper identical to his own.
“So, you get to be a part of the show?”
“I don’t know yet. I need to re-present to him first.”
“A new project?”
“Yeah. I believe so.”
“The show’s in less than a week,” he states the obvious with his voice rising an octave. “Girl, you are going to be busy.”
“Tell me about it…and I’m clueless as to what I’m going to do.”
“It’ll come to you. Just give it time.”
“I really don’t have much of that,” I grumble.
“True.” He rubs the top of his shaved head. “Damn, let me know if you need help.”
Adjusting my bag over my shoulder, I say, “Thanks. I appreciate it.”
“C’mon. Let’s get out of here, so we can talk about what you’re going to do,” he says, turning on his heel and leading me to the door. “Coffee will help. Coffee is always the answer.”
“Is that right, Caffeine Buddha?”
“It never steers me wrong.”
We leave the classroom, walk down the art building’s empty hall, and exit into the warm spring air toward the campus cafe that’s only two buildings away. The sun is shining bright, and the tulips are in bloom, creating a rainbow of hope across the verdant green grass.
As Wolfgang and I quietly walk together, I contemplate what could be done to prove my talent to Professor Turner, but I come up with nothing. I need to impress him, but my mind is drawing a blank.
“Don’t think about it too much,” Wolfgang says when enough silence has passed.
“That’s it?” I sass. “That’s all you’ve got? Don’t think?”
“You got it.”
“Do you have any other brilliant advice?”
“Be true to yourself,” Wolfgang announces with mock theatrics. “Love thyself. And always practice safe sex.”
I laugh. “Thanks, oh wise one.”
“Anytime.”
About halfway to the cafe, my phone rings out of the blue with my father’s ringtone. He rarely calls.
“Let me get this,” I tell Wolfgang. We pause, and I fish out my cell to answer it quickly. “Hey, Daddy,” I greet him, adjusting the weight of my bag.
“Afternoon, E,” he replies kind and conversationally. “How are you doing?”
“Well. Thank you.”
“Good. I hope exams have gone as expected?”
“Yes, for the most part.”
“I’m glad to hear that.” He harrumphs. “I was calling because I have a favor to ask.”
“What is it?”
“How would you feel about joining your mother and me for brunch tomorrow? We’ll be in town.”
It’s the end of my shift, and everyone has left the library, except for Foster and me. He’s currently downstairs, locking up for the evening, while I continue the task of organiz
ing the stacks.
Today’s final critique with Professor Turner was a hard hit and somewhat of a reality check. I’m likely taking the initial rejection a little too much to heart, but for the first time, I’m questioning whether art is really a worthwhile pursuit. Life is nothing but obstacles to overcome, and I’m no stranger to being spurned, but I’m gutted by today’s events. Not to mention, after brainstorming with Wolfgang over coffee for an hour, I’m still no closer to creating a presentable piece for Professor Turner. I despise the growing doubt. It’s a foreign feeling and not welcomed. I wish it to leave.
Then, there’s my parents’ sudden announcement of a visit tomorrow weighing heavily on my mind.
Nothing like short notice.
Of course, I agreed to meet with them. They’ll be flying in town on business, and they asked that I join a social brunch with potential clients, which I don’t do often, but it’ll be easy enough to attend since the meeting is local. My father does this occasionally to show the human and family side of the company. Apparently, that family aspect is a selling point for some clients.
In this same request for brunch, he also stated that he would like an update on my plans for after I graduate. My parents are aware of my acceptance letters to now four MBA programs. I’m dreading the conversation, having no firm answer.
“How’s it coming?” Foster asks, joining me in the stacks.
“Dandy,” I comment pseudo cheerfully, shelving a book and then joining him at the cart. “All locked up?”
“Yep. Just you, me, and the bound words of a few hundred geniuses.”
“Sounds intelligently creepy.”
“It wasn’t meant to be seductive.” He lowers his voice. “But we are alone.”
“Get to work,” I tease, pulling another volume from the cart. Then, I make my way down the aisle to put it in its proper place. “I don’t want to be here all night.”
“I thought you enjoyed my private company.”
“I do, but I’d rather enjoy it one last time in bed before you leave. And the sooner we’re done here, the sooner we can get there.”
He teases me, “You sound so determined.”
“I am somewhat.”
“Now, you’re being modest.”
“I didn’t even know I possessed that trait.” I lean a hip against a series of books perched on metal shelves.
“You always have. You’re just now learning to embrace it.” He eases a book into its proper place.
“Don’t tell anyone. I wouldn’t want my reputation to be tainted.”
“Never.” Foster picks up a book, ponders its cover for some time, and then adjusts the dark-framed lenses over his face. “Evelyn?”
“Yes, Fozzie?” I reply, unabashedly staring.
He’s so fucking sexy. Who knew that geek was my type? Maybe it isn’t, but Foster certainly is.
“When I get back from visiting my sister”—he rests the book back in the cart—“I was wondering if maybe you’d like to come with me to meet my family.”
“I already met your parents,” I say, closing the distance between us.
“A drive-by at a wedding doesn’t really count. I was thinking, I’d like for you to meet them more formally, like for dinner possibly.”
“You make it sound like we’re a serious couple,” I tease.
“Is that a problem?” he quickly quips back.
“No. I take you very seriously.”
“The feeling is mutual.” He slips his palm to my lower back and tugs me close. “My family is a little…different, but I don’t want you to be scared. They’re really down-to-earth.”
“Now, you have me curious.” I circle my arms around his waist. “Is there something I need to know?”
“Not anything of importance.” He seals his chest to mine. “We can talk about it when I get back.”
“You know, your vagueness will be your detriment.”
“How so?”
“My imagination is very vivid.” I kiss his temptingly kissable lips. “You’re not part of a mafia family, are you?”
He laughs. “No, nothing like that. We’re just normal everyday people.”
“With giant brains, I assume?”
“Now, that is an insult. Giant doesn’t even come close. They’re gargantuan.”
“Of course. My mistake.”
He playfully smacks my ass, and we both get back to work, making a dent in the pile of returns that need to be shelved before we can leave for the night.
“So,” Foster begins, “you’re meeting with your parents tomorrow?”
“Yes. So nice of them to spring a surprise visit on me.”
“Do they do that often?”
“No. My father has some business he needs to attend to in town, and I get to reap the rewards of that.”
Crouching down to the bottom section of the cart, Foster says, “I never asked, but what kind of work does your father do?”
I thumb through the pages of a book, contemplating how much to divulge. Knowledge of wealth changes opinions so quickly, and I’m not sure if I’m ready for Foster to know that part of me just yet. I don’t plan to keep it a secret forever, but maybe after I meet his parents would be a suitable time to reveal that portion of my life.
“He’s in a kind of public relations,” I tell him vaguely, leaving out that it’s one of the largest international firms in the business. “Advertising mostly.”
Foster examines me, confused.
He opens his mouth to speak and then quickly shuts it, shaking his head.
His perplexity fades away.
“That must be where you get your creativity from,” he states.
“Possibly.”
“Are you excited at all to see them?”
“Not really. I’m just hoping it goes by with little friction. They want to discuss grad school.”
“And what do you plan to tell them?”
“Not sure.” I smooth my hands across the front of my skirt. “I’m hoping to put it off a little longer, if possible.”
“Why don’t you just tell them you don’t want to go?”
I chuckle. “That’s funny.”
“I’m serious.”
“It’s complicated and…”
“You do realize you’re an adult and you can make your own decisions?”
“Decisions come with the risk of consequences,” I echo back.
“Or with the risk of happiness,” he counters. “Just look at you and me.”
“True. You were a great decision.” I smile. “Anyhow, it should be a short visit. They’re planning to head south afterwards to go on vacation.”
“Sounds exotic.”
“Maybe.” I slide a blue book onto the shelf. “So, what time is your flight tomorrow?” I ask, referring to his family trip to Georgia to visit his sister, Camille.
She recently had a baby, and they’re all going down to meet the new arrival.
“Around two. I’m meeting up with my parents, and we’re all going to the airport together.”
“You must be excited to see your nephew.”
“I am. And Camille. I told her about you.”
“I hope it was all horrible and nasty stuff.”
“Absolutely. Nothing but the truth.” He scratches the side of his head. “Maybe you’ll get to meet her one day.”
“That would be nice.”
Grabbing the second to last book, I exit the aisle and enter into another row, on the opposite side of where Foster still remains.
“How many days will you be gone again?” I ask through the empty space over the lined up volumes on the shelf.
“Just a few,” he answers. “I was planning to be back for your show at the end of the week.”
“Well, that’s still up in the air.”
“I’m sure you’ll make it happen,” he says encouragingly. Foster peeks through the shelves. “Do you have any idea what you’re going to do yet?”
“No,” I grumble. “I’m still waiting fo
r that miraculous moment of inspiration that’s supposed to come to all artists.”
“You’re waiting for a miracle?”
“Is that too much to ask?”
Foster walks down to the end of the row, rounds the tall stack, and joins me where I shove the final volume away.
“You know,” Foster says like he’s beginning a lesson plan, “scientists believe there’s an explanation for everything, and miracles are simply a myth. People just need to know where to look.”
“Is that right?” I mock. “Then, tell me where to look. I’m open to suggestions.”
“You’re grouchy,” he teases, sliding his palm around my waist. “Maybe what you really need is a healthy dose of oxytocin.”
“Of what?”
“It’s a pleasure chemical.”
“You know I love it when you talk nerdy to me,” I jest at his playfulness. “Forget dirty wordsmithery. Science is where it’s at.”
“Is that so?”
I nod.
“You could also benefit from a little serotonin,” he utters in a seductive tone at my ear.
“Keep talking.”
“Dopamine.” He trails his warm tongue along the length of my neck.
“That’s so fucking sexy.”
“You’re not kidding, are you?” Foster nips at my chin. “You really like this?”
“Shut up.” I grab his ass, tugging him against me. “What else do you have?”
“Endorphins.” His mouth seals to mine. “Lots of endorphins.” He kisses me soft and slow, like a drawn-out dream playing across my lips.
“What are they?”
“An endurance chemical that keeps me going all”—his lips press to my neck—“night”—his fingers slide under the fabric of my shirt—“long.” His palm cups my breast.
“I love endorphins,” I sigh, unfastening his belt buckle as he continues to slay the sensitive skin on my throat. “Bless endorphins and all their dorphi-ness.”
“You might be more partial to oxytocin.”
“Oh, yeah?” Unbuttoning his pants, I reach down into his shorts and grip his ready erection. “What does that do?”
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