Page 42 of The Artist and the Muse

“Maybe I don’t want anything your lips have touched.”

“Are you worried it’ll tempt you?”

My hands curled into fists at my sides and I scanned the lobby. “Other students could be here. At least try to be professional.”

I took a not-so-subtle step away from him.

“Very well. But people might wonder how you’re getting away with being so antagonistic toward your instructor.”

“Have you considered that it’s because you gave me a bad grade for no reason?”

“I gave you plenty of time to resubmit that assignment. You still haven’t.”

The barista called my order and my name and I gratefully accepted it, eager to get away from George.

An ocean of hurt and memories lay between us. Yet I still couldn’t stop myself from sandcastles in low tide, knowing full well he’d obliterate them every time.

Chapter Nineteen: George Devereaux

In the lobby, the students all introduced themselves to each other. There were four female students and the one guy—aside from myself—was Hunter, our TA. Since we were going to be spending a week together, we decided to do some icebreakers.

Isabella, a brunette, introduced herself as an English major who was taking this class for fun. Then there was Natalia, an engineering major who was in this class to finish her degree since she still needed another arts option. Jamie, a pre-med student, had a friendly, bubbly demeanour reminded me of Abigail. Georgia introduced herself to the group as an Anthropology major.

Natalia and Isabella were rooming with one another—they seemed like close friends despite their disparate degrees—and Jamie was in a room by herself. We all exchanged contact information in case of emergencies.

Georgia made small talk with them about the class as we walked to our first sightseeing destination.

As our group walked from the hotel to St. Peter’s Basilica, I tried to stop worrying about Georgia. Maybe she had changed. Maybe I didn’t know her as well as I thought I did. Maybe I wasn’t the man for her.

It wouldn’t do me any good worrying about her if she was unwilling to accept my concern, anyway. And as long as she refused to admit she had a problem, my pointing it out to her wouldn’t help her.

So, I tried to enjoy myself. I was in a city I had once loved with students who were presumably eager to learn about Italian art—that is, if they weren’t lying and handing in essays generated by AI.

I struck up a conversation with Hunter, my teaching assistant, who wore a black hoodie even in this heat. I noticed a Latin inscription in white font on the back of his sweater.

“Cool hoodie,” I said, and he brightened.

“Thanks! I appreciate you organizing this trip. I’ve always wanted to go to Rome, but the few times I’ve been in Italy, we were always in Venice or Milan.”

“That’s a shame. It’s a beautiful city, isn’t it?” As I made conversation with Hunter, I began to feel more like myself, the old self I’d thought had died with my father. The one who could easily wander from city to city, traipsing from country to country, painting art and living life without a care in the world.

Part of me missed the man I had been. Another part of me knew and accepted he would never come back.

“So, Latin, huh? You’re a Classics major, right?” I asked Hunter.

“Yeah.” He lifted up his hood to show me the full image on the hoodie, a white cross on black with the inscriptionI.N.R.I.on the bottom.

“Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews,” I translated as I read the text. In Latin, it stood forIesus Nazarenus Rex Iudaeorum, since there was no letterJin Latin. “Did I get that right?”

Hunter laughed. “I’d be worried if you didn’t.”

“Why the Classics?”

He shrugged. “I wanted to learn Latin so I could become a priest.”

“I can’t say I’ve ever met anyone who wanted to become a priest before.” I hastily added, “Not that there’s anything wrong with that.”

“It’s okay, I get that a lot.” Hunter chuckled. “Believe me, it wasn’t an easy decision.”

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