Page 3 of The Artist and the Muse

“… Also, to do something fun for this class, there will be an optional field trip to see various art pieces during the reading break,” he said.

His voice jolted me out of my daze, pen poised over my notebook. I shouldn’t have been such a sucker for museums, but I loved them too much to dismiss the possibility of one, even in an undergraduate art class filled with bored students.

“We will be going to Italy and taking guided tours of several museums, exploring the Sistine Chapel, and going to other historical sites of artistic and cultural significance,” George continued.

A wave of murmurs cropped up around me, winding through the students. Some of them darted their gazes up from their phones or sat a little straighter in their seats.

“If you cannot bear the financial burden of this trip right now, I completely understand. There will be some study abroad funding available from the university, but I’ll have to get back to you on the exact amount. Obviously I can’t take all two hundred of you on a trip, and I know many of you have other classes.

“So, I have also arranged a journaling assignment for you to do, since the Met is also holding an exhibit on Christian art for the next two months. I understand the exhibit will also be available virtually on their website, although I highly recommend you all go see it in person. Any questions about that?”

A cluster of hands shot up around me. But all I could think about was the sunkissed memories of eating pasta on the Amalfi coast; the gorgeous, intricately designed buildings that had stood for hundreds of years; and George’s hand in mine as we wandered around Rome. I shook the memory away as questions sprang from several students.

“How long is the trip?”

“When will it be?”

“What museums will we be going to?”

He answered each question with ease, speaking with all the grace and charisma of a well-spoken museum tour guide. Yet I knew him better. I knew underneath all that bravado, he was so much more than anyone here would ever know. More than all the girls not so subtly snapping pictures of him could ever find out online. The worst part was, he still provoked a reaction from me.

He wasn’t just my sort-of ex. He was my cousin Alexander’s brother-in-law, so we had to cross paths at family gatherings. So this class meant we would be seeing far more of each other than usual.

After assuring us that more information about the field trip would be posted online, George moved onto the lecture portion of the class and I kept taking notes. “Now, who can tell me the artist who painted this?”

It was an image of a horse looming over a man who must have fallen on the road. The painting’s subject was mostly in shadow, the horse taking up most of the frame.

Someone blurted out an answer from a few rows behind me. “Someone who really loved horses?”

George chuckled. “Try again.”

“Raphael?” A girl seated to my right guessed. Her lips pressed into a smug smile, her colour-coded sticky notes and highlighters sitting next to her notebook with perfect handwriting. I shouldn’t have despised her just for speaking to him or for being so organized.

Yet part of me hated being in this class with all these people, not wearing my usual full face of makeup with my hair perfectly braided. Part of me wondered if they could all read the emotions written on my face without the mask I typically wore. If they knew what I was thinking about George.

“A good guess. It’s Caravaggio, and no, I don’t know how he felt about horses. This isConversion on the Road to Damascus, which depicts the conversion of which famous saint?”

When I didn’t hear anyone else speak, I raised my hand. I knew this one, from listening to my cousin-in-law, Katerina, talk about it at a Bible study that she hosted at my uncle’s penthouse. “Paul.”

“Correct.”

I finished the next two and a half hours of the class without any incident. Class ended and everyone filed out. Unfortunately, I was stuck at the bottom of the grand lecture hall since I was in the front row. Which severely dampened my plans of escaping George’s presence.

Whether he was my professor or not, George Devereaux and I couldn’t be together in private.

It could only end in tears, flames, or both.

“Georgia.”

I stuffed my things into my bag and started taking quick strides up the stairs, but the strap of my bag caught on the rail. The frustrated growl I’d been muffling all morning ripped from my throat.

George’s eyes widened a smidgen, but he didn’t step back.

“I just want to talk,” he said.

As if that were any better.

“You’re my professor. This is inappropriate.”

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