Page 37 of The Artist and the Muse

I didn’t have time to savour the sound of my name on her lips before she continued.

“Admit that you ended things between us because we both had gotten what we wanted out of it. We only got together so you could stay in the States and so I could get back at Sergio. Stop pretending it was anything more than that.”

“Stop pretending?“ I repeated in an incredulous whisper, grateful there was no one in the seat next to her. The family across the aisle was glued to a movie on their screens. “You’vebeen pretending all these months that you’re happy and fine. Pretending that you like modelling. Pretending that you’re still the lively, carefree spirit you were when I met you, before modelling sucked the life out of your bones.”

Her electric blue eyes flashed like thunderclouds. I knew I’d gone too far, but if it shook her out of her shell, I had to keep going.

“Iamfine. I don’t need your pity or your concern.” She scoffed. “You’re the one who can’t even get a real job on his own and needs to rely on nepotism. You’re the one who can’t stay in one place for too long, who’s always running away from the past that haunts you. You’ll never stick around. How could things ever be real between us when you’ve disappointed everyone who’s ever loved you?”

We were both breathing hard, facing one another now. Her eyes were an ocean I wanted to drown me. How could one woman be the source of so much pain, yet still draw me in so strongly with hergravitational pull?

As if on cue, a baby wailed behind us, and our staring contest broke. We both turned back to our respective pastimes: she pulled out a fantasy book while I opened my laptop to resume grading.

By unspoken agreement, neither of us spoke a word to each other for the rest of the flight.

And I couldn’t help but remember how I had gotten us to this place.

***

Three Months Ago

I paced the small coffee shop next to the place where I’d once gotten hot chocolate with Georgia. My untouched coffee lay on the table, getting cold, but I picked at a biscotti instead as I waited for her.

The marriage license had been purchased. We only had to visit the courthouse and walk out as a married couple. The purpose of our coffee shop meeting was just to discuss the final details.

I should have been excited to go through with marrying her. Any sane man would’ve been. She was intelligent, witty, and exciting. She’d inspired half a dozen paintings of mine before we’d ever spoken, not that those would ever see the light of day.

Yet I couldn’t help but feel a deep sense of wrongness permeating my bones. We were going about the right thing in all the wrong ways. I shouldn’t have been marrying her to get a visa, and she shouldn’t have been marrying me to get back at her ex-boyfriend. We should have been in love. Happy. Picking out an apartment and touring venues and hiring wedding photographers.

Instead, I was turning my biscotti into crumbs at the cafe she’d agreed to meet me at, growing more nervous by the second.

My phone rang and I jumped to grab it. “Hello?”

“Mr. George Devereaux? This is Edwin MacCallum, the dean of the Art and Classics department at New York University.”

“Yes, this is George Devereaux. It’s a pleasure to speak with you. May I ask why you’re calling?”

“I’d like to inform you that your application to be a guest lecturer for the summer term has been accepted. You’ll receive an email with more information later this week.”

I nearly dropped my phone. I’d never expected to get the job, even with the help of Aaron Steele’s professor friend. “Thank you so much, Mr. McCallum.”

After a few pleasantries and confirming a meeting date, he hung up. Just then, Georgia walked in.

Her cheeks were pink from the cold outside, and she wore a long coat over knee-high boots, her face partially concealed by an oversized scarf. It was an ordinary spring outfit, but she wore it differently. With the kind of grace and ineffable allure that I struggled to capture in my artwork, no matter how many times I painted her.

“George,” she said when she saw me. “I hope that coffee is for me.”

I held out her chair for her. When she was seated, I pushed the drink toward her side of the table. “Here.”

“You look so somber,” she said, arching a brow. “Something on your mind?”

“I got the job at NYU.”

“Congratulations!” She put down the coffee cup and grabbed my hand, squeezing it with jubilant affection. “I knew you could do it.”

Her belief in me warmed my heart more than it should have. “Thank you.”

She sipped the coffee. “So, tell me about the job! Did they hire you as a janitor?”

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