Page 6 of Yield to Me

“Sculpture,” I said. “I do a little bit of everything,” I added quickly, not wanting to limit my opportunities. “But mostly sculpture.”

“Her work reminds me of Louise Bourgeois,” Owen said.

Wile’s eyebrows lifted. I could feel myself getting hot all over, like I had sprinted a mile. It was a flattering comparison. Bourgeois had the ability to hide insecurity in her work, to leave a viewer uneasy, and yet mystified. Her depiction of memory always stunned me. And looking at Owen, this stupidly gorgeous businessman, who apparently also knew about art, and to get a compliment from him? I thought I was going to crumble right there from embarrassment and anger. “Oh, really? Do you have any examples of your work?” Wile asked.

Of course I did. It was almost like the room went silent, waiting for me to pull out my phone and show him a picture to prove that I had something worthy of discussion. It felt like everything I was preparing for came down to being able to impress Professor Stevens, and I couldn’t even work up the courage to show him a picture.

But the room hadn’t gone silent; everyone continued on. Nothing had changed. But I still couldn’t do it.

“Not with me,” I said.

“Shame. We’ll have to see about that next time. Excuse me,” Wile said. He turned towards the wine booth and gestured at an older couple. “I have to catch Higgins before the night is over.”

I let out a loud breath of relief. It was not my best first impression, but thank goodness it was finally over. As irritating as Michael’s pompous attitude was, I had learned quickly how to overpower his control of the conversation and steer it into the most favorable light. But with Owen, I had cracked. I had made a fool of myself in the most ridiculous way. Why did I get scared to show my work? I had shown the other professor. What difference did it make if I showed Wile Stevens? He’d be seeing my work in the future anyway.

So why did I get this feeling like I was nervous to show a work in progress in front of Owen? And for fuck’s sake, how had he seen my work in the first place? He must’ve pulled Bourgeois out of thin air.

When I finally got the courage to look at him, he was staring at me, as if his gaze had never left. “Why the hell are you here?” I asked.

“I’m always at these events,” he said coolly. There was a slight upwards curve at the corner of his mouth, drawing attention to his lips, smooth like a bar of butter. But the half smile made it feel like he was smirking, like he was playing a game with me.

“You didn’t need to do that,” I said.

“I introduced you to the person who will have the final say on your portfolio,” he said.

“I could’ve introduced myself.”

“Right, right. All by yourself. Stevens avoids your type like the plague.”

Now I knew it was a smirk, and I wanted to slap it off of his face. I had heard that Stevens was hard to talk to, but I could’ve done it; I knew I could have. What an asshole, I thought, assuming I needed him. My chest burned with rage.

“How do you even know what my work is like?” I asked. I looked around, like I could find the answer: a teacher’s assistant, a professor, someone that I had worked with that knew Owen. I saw Michael with his hand around another woman. Typical Michael. He saw me looking at him and he winked.

“I have my ways,” Owen said.

“Of course you do,” I said sarcastically.

“I see your friend is jealous.” He nodded towards Michael, who, as if on queue, turned his back towards us.

“What is there to be jealous of?” I threw up my hands in disbelief. “You act as if you know me.”

His green eyes darkened, a strict intensity coming over him, changing his entire posture. Any warmth he had had, had left his face. I had to stop myself from taking a step back. It was as if he was bigger, peering deep inside of me with those green eyes, seeing everything inside of me and judging it. But I held my ground, wanting to show him that I wasn’t afraid or even impressed by him, even if everyone else was. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was even more nervous than before. I hope he didn’t see it in me.

“You lied. You have an example on your phone,” he said.

When I thought I couldn’t get any hotter, my cheeks warmed, and I knew I was bright red. Had he seen me show the professor the pictures on my phone? I looked away.

“So what?” I said.

“Show me.”

A shudder chilled my body. It was a simple command, one I could easily turn down. I could tell him to fuck off, you asshole, and yet I didn’t. Something stopped me. There was a desire to prove myself, to show Owen that I was, in fact, worthy of this program, that I didn’t need his help. I wanted to see his face, to see the understanding change his expression. At least, that’s what I told myself. It was a desire to prove my ability. It had nothing to do with wanting him to like my work, my artistry.

“You want this so badly that you’re at every event, at every opening. You take every opportunity to get yourself one step closer to your dream. You mingle and talk and persuade and gather every piece of information you can handle, anything you can do to prove your talents. To show what you’re worth. And when you’re asked for a demonstration of that talent—let’s skip the lies here, Miss Glass, we all know you have an example—you shut down, hiding from it.”

Cold swept through my body again. He was right. I didn’t know why I had backed off when I had the opportunity to prove myself to Wile. What had stopped me? Wasn’t this what I had been preparing for?

And how the hell was Owen so good at making my body switch from hot to cold with a few words?

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