Page 25 of The Muse
Meeting up with Ivy was just what I needed. Hopefully, there will be more time to do this with her in the future, although her schedule seems chaotic and impossible to plan for. One thing I’ll remedy in my new life—ensure time for my sister. And I even managed to ignore my phone for half the time we were together.
On the drive back home, I read the two messages from Scott that must have come in when I was distracted and do everything in my power to rein in the excitement they conjure.
You caught me at a bad time. You were more than good, and you know I want to do it again.
And the next.
And I’d like to take you out. Monday. Meet me at Regent’s Park at 3. I’ll text you which gate.
My fingers fly across the screen, unable to stop the twelve-year-old inside me erupting with glee.
Sounds great. I’ll keep my fingers crossed for dry weather x
Or bring an umbrella. See you Monday. Scott.
No kiss. Ugh.
Still, a date is a date. And I've got one.
Chapter Eleven
SCOTT
Monday arrives, and I'm questioning my own moral compass as I walk towards the high street. A date? What the hell sort of offer was that? I don’t do dates. They’re bloody farcical and nothing but a prelude to the actual end goal. Given that I’m pretty damn sure I’d get the end goal again without the need for a date, I don’t know why I didn’t just state the obvious and get her back to my place.
At least the traffic isn’t quite so fucking annoying at this time of day. And, for whatever reason, Monday doesn’t seem quite so pitiful either. It’s probably because I didn't have to deal with Landon fucking Broderick on Friday, and therefore, I've had time to just paint and imagine her. The latter of which I'm both trying to ignore and yet desperate to acknowledge in some way.
Three changes on the tube and I emerge into the light on Baker Street, my feet immediately taking me the final few streets to get to Regent’s Park. Tourists crowd the area aroundMadame Tussauds, all of them gasping and clicking their bloody cameras endlessly. Christ, if they actually lived in this heap of crap, they’d soon change their blinkered opinion of it. It’s nothing but mania, misery and droning. At least it is for me. Well, usually.
Another few streets walked, and I wait by the gate we’ve agreed to meet at. My head tips back onto the railings instantly, the lenses on my glasses darkening under the sunny glare. Art. It’s all I’ve got for a date. What else is there anyway? Nothing. The only thing in this world to ever cause me emotive responses is art. Passion. Fury. Sadness. Joy. They’ve all been with me through the years, and all of them have been transferred from these hands onto a surface of some kind—including skin. Striking portraits. Impulsive landscapes. Intangible images, or as the world assesses it—abstract art. If there’s a feeling I’ve had, a mental battle I’ve had to deal with, or even a sense of happiness overwhelming me, art is the way I’ve dealt with it.
At least until these past two years.
And now there's her.
I frown and stare back out into the trail of people milling into the park, still trying to figure it all out. Maybe it’s because sheisart. She’s all of those emotive responses tied together for me. The way she moves. The way the light creates highlights on her body. The poised control of those muscles. Even the very nature of the chaste life she’s lived before me seems enveloped in something relevant. It’s all a bundle of conflicting and yet seamless energy. And it's an energy I don’t know how to move forward with.
“Hey,” her voice suddenly says.
I blink, turn, and find her leaning on the railings next to me. The very vision of her smiling makes me smile back and stare, eyes running over lines well etched into my mind already.
She blushes for some reason and looks at the floor, swirling her foot around the dust.
“Dance move?” I ask.
“No. Nervous move.”
I snort and grab her hand to tow her into the park. “No need for nerves. We’ve already done the fucking part. You were good at it. Relax.”
Giggling, she follows and stays quiet as I lead her through to the Japanese gardens.
“I’m afraid this is part work today,” I say, turning us through the throngs of visitors.
“It is?” she replies, looking confused.
I cut across the grass to move us away from others, half a mind to take us straight to a hotel rather than bother with this triviality. “I have a review to write, and I thought maybe you could help me write it.”
“I don’t know anything about writing reviews.”
