Page 45 of The Artist and the Muse

Maybe, despite all the pain I’d endured, the pain that was only a sliver of hers, I could hope again. Could sit in that pain but not let it consume me. Could see the light that would lead me out of my anger at Sergio.

“What’s that?”

I nearly jumped out of my skin at George’s voice. “I know I joked about you following me to the coffee shop this morning, but I didn’t think you were a stalker.”

“I was just making sure you didn’t get separated from the group. You don’t have to tell me whatever you’re reading if it’s private.” He shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans.

“It’s a letter from Sergio.” His lack of insistence that I divulge the contents to him made it feel okay to explain. “His apology to me.”

His hazel eyes softened. “How do you feel about it?”

“Shocked, mostly. It was remarkably well-composed and he even took accountability for what he did wrong.” It was sad that the bar wasso low, but I was grateful that he had done it all the same. “Looking back, I see that how he broke things off hurt me. I never felt like a person to him. I was just a trophy he could throw away or an object he could use.”

I wasn’t sure why I was pouring my heart out to George—only that there were tears in my eyes as I spoke. Only that he’d found me at the exact time when I was about to break down, somehow knowing that I needed help. That I needed comfort.

George said nothing for a moment. Then he placed a gentle hand on my back. That touch unravelled me, causing me to sniffle as he pulled me into his chest. “You didn’t deserve that. You’re not an object or a trophy, Georgia. You’re… you’re so much more than that. You’re everything that makes life worth living. Warmth and laughter and adventure—and yes, beauty, but you are so much more than your body.”

I shouldn’t have been undone by his statement. But I was.

Swallowing the tears that threatened to form in my eyes—I wasnota crier, and I wasn’t about to let George Devereaux turn me into one—I said, “We should rejoin the group before they wonder where we’ve gone.”

He nodded, but I saw the resignation in his eyes as he did so. Like I was closing a door when he’d just started to turn the knob.

***

At lunch after our tour of the Basilica, I was roped into eating with the rest of the students and George at a local restaurant. Seated next to a girl in the class named Jamie, I studied the menu while she peppered me with conversation. I didn’t mind her chatter.

Not that I was often quiet, but I had been today, as my mind was currently preoccupied with George’s words.

“How are you liking Italy? You’ve been before, right?” Jamie had recognized me from a shoot I had done for ItalianVogueand had politely asked about it earlier. I didn’t mind it; she was friendly enough and didn’t seem to have any bad intentions.

“Yeah, I love it here. I’ve been a few times with my cousin and for modelling shoots. What about you?” I decided to have a simpleminestrone di verdurewith a side of gnocchi. Though the pizza list was extensive and they all sounded delicious, soup seemed like the safest bet for a healthy-ish meal.

“I’ve never been. My family and I usually visit my aunts and uncles when we travel, so I’ve mostly been travelling around the States and Asia,” Jamie explained. “Ooh, the calamari looks really good. Do you want to split that with me?”

“No, thanks.” It was best for me not to eat anything fried. Going on vacation didn’t have to mean throwing my diet out the window.

The waiter came to take all of our orders and I swore I felt George’s eyes burn a hole into me as I asked for the soup.

Soup was a perfectly normal meal. I was probably imagining his concern. Fortunately, he turned away from me after we had finished ordering and resumed his conversation with the TA; apparently, they were talking about Latin. Or maybe talkinginLatin for how much I could understand.

“So, Jamie, what are you studying at NYU?”

“I’m in my first year of pre-med,” she said cheerfully. “So this art history class is a fun breather since I’m not taking any other courses this summer.”

“That’s cool. Do you want to be a doctor?” I asked before almost smacking myself. Of course she wanted to be a doctor. She was apre-med student. She also had a warm, outgoing personality that reminded me of my cousin Abigail, so I could imagine her having a great bedside manner with patients.

“Yep. Both of my parents are surgeons at Cedars-Sinai,” she said, sipping her water. “I’ve always wanted to follow in their footsteps.”

“Wow.” What was that like—having your life mapped out for you since you were so young? Then again, I thought I knew the answer, though I wasn’t half as excited about modelling as Jamie seemed to be about becoming a doctor. “That’s awesome. Did you ever feel like you had to be a doctor just because your parents are surgeons?”

“No, never.” She so casually dismissed the idea. “They always told me I could be whatever I wanted and they would be happy as long as I didn’t become a drug dealer or something. But I’ve always liked helping people, and I want to do what my parents did, too. They worked with lots of missionary organizations before they started working where they do now. It would be awesome if I could serve others in that way.”

My brows rose. “That’s a pretty lofty goal.”

She shrugged. “I don’t think so. I mean, there’s so much pain and suffering in the world. If I can just do a little to alleviate some of it, I should, right?”

Something about her words stuck with me as we continued our conversation, moving onto topics like worst date horror stories and family. I couldn’t help but feel like I hadn’t been doing that with my life.

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