Page 2 of With September

“I think it is too vibrant. I went back through the previous year’s entries, and they were all subdued, muted, serious. Mine tends to be…more celebratory. Maybe that’s the wrong word. I don’t know, I guess it just doesn’t seem sophisticated. It's like a kid with their first set of crayons and they just want to use all of the colors as soon as possible.” See, critical.

He regards me for a second or two before he holds his hand out. “I want to take you somewhere. Come with me?” he phrases it as a question, but the way he looks at me, I don’t think it is. I look at his hand and feel like somehow, if I take it, I am agreeing to something else. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and decide to jump.

“Okay. Where are we going?” I ask, curious because he seems so excited.

“You’ll see.” He pulls me toward him, and we begin to walk.

“We’re walking?”

“Everybody walks in New York,” he says, chuckling. We walk for a while in silence. “We’re here.”

Trying not to smile too wide, I look up in just enough time to see a bevy of different things happening in front of my eyes. “Wow!” I exclaim seriously, unable to find another description. “Where are we?”

“Welcome to the art district.” Holy cow! I have heard about this part of the city but haven’t been brave enough to ventureoutside the university walls yet. I seriously regret that decision now.

“This is amazing.” I turn on circles as we walk, taking it all in.

“I brought you here because I want you to see art as it was intended. Subjective. Brought to life with the creator's mind. Art should never be held back. Restricted or relegated to a context according to anyone other than you, September. Your painting is vibrant, alive and do you know what I see when I look at it?” Biting my lip, trying not to cry at all of his sweet words, I shake my head. His thumb touches my cheek, wiping a tear I didn’t realize had fallen. “I see a painting of love of oneself. I get the sense that this is the first time you have felt seen and free. I see possibilities, beautiful, and that is something worth sharing.”

Holy shit. He saw all of that in my painting? Now that he has said it out loud, that is precisely what was going through my mind when I was painting it, but hearing him say it makes it seem perfect. “Thank you,” I whisper, feeling shy again. And like last time, he lifts my chin and smiles at me.

“You’re welcome. Now, let’s go see everything.” For the next few hours we visit a dressmaker, a sculptor, a man who makes the most beautiful wood carvings I have ever seen. A masonry and someone who makes the best artsy jewelry ever. I bought like two pairs of earrings, a necklace, two bracelets and a set of hair accessories.

This has been the best day of my life. How do I keep it from ending?

Chapter Two

Trevor

I never planned to teach,but I wanted the apprenticeship Hamilton University offered. To get it, I had to help teach two basic art electives. I found that I enjoyed it and kept doing it even after I finished the apprenticeship. I don’t need to work. I grew up wealthy. Trevor Senior, my father’s family has been in the steel business since the 1800s, and Celeste, my mom—well, she designs sex toys and makes a lot of money doing it. She wasn’t born into money; therefore she’s taught us the value of hard work. Mom did many odd jobs before meeting Dad, and she says she’s better off for it. The Arnoult’s are New York royalty, and we know it. I don’t set out to flaunt it; it happens constantly. My brother, Hensen, is a year younger than I am at twenty-four, and he’s been working for my father forever. Thank God he is. I don’t know what I’d do if my parents expected me to give up my art and work some boring nine-to-five job. My sister, Star, is twenty-three and still finding herself. She's mostly on the paper's front page or in the mall, but she’s trying. Not hard, but trying. I live in The Empress's Hotel's penthouse, a historic Chelsea landmark near the university. It’s needs work but it’s home. Even without our wealth, I’d be fine. My art sells, and TAing at the university pays more than I thought it would.

“This gallery looks expensive,” September says from beside me. She says it matter of factly, not judgy or shocked even. We’ve stopped to admire the display of the Darwin Gallery. The display showcases a large abstract painting resembling two takeout coffee cups kissing. It’s not my style, but it’s beautiful, nonetheless.

“I’m sure it is,” I reply, already knowing full well that it is. My friend Stella runs the gallery, and nothing inside is priced less than a million dollars. It might not be worth that much, but people buy it because Stella tells them it’s worth it.

I wanted September from the moment she breezed into my class. She was six minutes late, so of course, I noticed her. She came into my studio on a cloud of perfume that made me instantly hard. She was tripping and not paying attention to anything but her bag, so I doubt she noticed anything going on around her. The university frowns upon TAs dating students because we grade papers, but we are both students at the end of the day. It never once crossed my mind before the day I met her. I could only stare at it when I walked up behind her while she was lost in her painting. I was mesmerized by it—the lines, the colors. I could even feel her energy while she was painting. As much as I love art and the fundamentals of it, I’ve never felt anything like that when looking at someone else’s work, not even the masters. With my own, I feel connected in a way that can’t accurately be described in words. It’s a feeling.

With September, it was only a matter of time before I broke down and asked her to join me for a walking tour followed by dinner. I didn’t even make it through the first fucking week. We are walking around Chelsea, New York’s Art District. It’s still about seventy degrees, so it’s not too hot.

“Can I take you out on a date?”

“Isn’t this a date?” she asks sweetly. She’s currently eating a hot dog from a vendor we just passed. I’m trying not to be turned on or jealous of a freaking hot dog, but it’s hard.

“It can be.”

“That’s really up to you.”

“It’s a date.” My response is firm. I want her to be mine.

“Good,” she says, smiling at me.

Before stopping at my friend Adora's jewelry store, I take her to a few galleries and stores. She lights up when she looks around, and I watch as her eyes linger on certain pieces. It’s easy to know which ones she likes best.

“She’s young, Trev,” Adora says, standing beside me. She’s in her late forties. We met at a trade show a few years ago. She’s more of a friend of my mother’s at this point, but she’s nice and has many contacts in the art world.

“Not that young,” I say, not telling her how exactly I know her.

“She’s probably after your money. Be careful.”

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