Becoming His Muse, Complete Set (24 page)

My mom hugs me again. I feel her fragility this time, her age. Not that she’s old, but it strikes me that she’ll only get older, and with time. I hug her back.

“I love you, mom,” I whisper. I feel as if I might be saying goodbye for a very long time even though I’ve just arrived. But this feeling isn’t about coming or going, it’s a feeling of another layer of childhood sloughing off me, like the outgrown skin of a snake.

She looks up at me—I’m about 2 inches taller than she is— her eyes crinkle with a smile. “It’s so good to have you home.”

“You just said that, Mom.”

She squeezes my arm and heads toward the door. “It’s never not going to be the case, Sweetie, so it bears repeating. Indulge me, why don’t you.”

I look around at my perfect room, my perfect mother, at the vestiges of what appears on the surface to be a perfect childhood.

My mom’s at the door now and she turns, her smile gone, a look of sadness in her eyes as she surveys my room.

“When your child is little, you never really think of them growing up. Not really. You can’t imagine it. Every inch they grow is a new surprise…” She seems to be talking to herself, not to me, but after a pause, she looks at me again.

“You never imagine they’ll one day be taller than you are, that they’ll surpass you in so many ways.”

“Mom…”

She shakes her head. “It’s as it should be, Ava, but it’s hard for me sometimes. When you’re gone, I forget how grown up you are. In the months I don’t see you my mind seems to go back to the past. I remember you as a little girl. Forget that you’re a grown woman.”

She looks shy and embarrassed now. “Sounds foolish, doesn’t it?”

“I don’t know,” I say. It doesn’t seem foolish to me, but maybe a little odd. I have an urge to tell her all about Logan, but I know she won’t understand. Not only would it blow her little girl memories out of the water, it would cause a whole new drama to unfold. She would tell my father, he would have a fit…

I won’t risk it. While on the train, I decided to keep that relationship to myself this weekend, and to pretend, for a while, it didn’t even exist. Because I just can’t imagine the secret becoming a reality. My parents would never approve of an older man, a teacher no less, an Irish immigrant who’s made his way by writing provocative literature, by seducing young muses…

I draw my arms around myself, feeling far away from Logan and the parts of myself that felt sure about us just a couple of days ago. Us. Is there an ‘us’? What are we? It’s not even a relationship. It’s an affair, a secret affair, with no hope of a future. That realization hits me hard as I stand in my room wishing I could talk to my mom about it and knowing I can’t. Knowing that I could never bring Logan home for Thanksgiving or Christmas. Knowing that even if I could imagine a future with him it would never look anything like
this
. Like home.

As I wrestle with thoughts of the future, my mom still seems to be gazing into the past.

“Is everything all right with you and dad?” I ask.

Her eyes drop their haze of melancholy nostalgia and instantly brighten with a kind of trained enthusiasm as she says, “Yes, of course! Everything’s perfect.”

She beams with a confident wifely smile and we’re back to the perfect life, the perfect family, the window onto some silent truth now closed.

“Hey, you gals coming down for a snack?” My father booms from the bottom of the stairs. I can’t remember the last time he set foot in my room. Not since before I turned sixteen. He prefers to call from a distance. And on this occasion, I guess he doesn’t want to stray too far from the football entertainment.

“Coming,” calls my mother in a sing song voice. To me, she says, “Come on now, you must be famished after your journey. I’ve got a ton of low carb snack options for the weekend.”

So the veiled comments on my weight have begun. “Just give me a minute to freshen up,” I say.

“Oh, that reminds me. The Simmonds’ are coming by tonight for drinks. You don’t mind, do you?” Without waiting for an answer, she strides off down the hall, calling out to my father as she goes, “John honey, did you put the wine in the fridge?”

I can’t tell if he answers her or is cheering whatever football team is on the tube.

I sit on the edge of my bed and pick at one of the embroidered roses. I don’t know if it feels
good
to be home, but it is home, and there’s some comfort in that. But if I’m honest with myself, I really do miss Logan. I feel caught between two places, two selves — the self I used to be safe at home and this new self finishing college, growing up, and getting ready to move out into the world. This new self breaking rules and taking risks.

I hear the buzz of my phone vibrating in my purse. I reach down to pull it out. My heart beats a little faster when I see who it is.

I miss my muse.

I smile, letting my thumbs respond.
She misses you too.

I’m sorry for the dickhead things I said before. Come back
.

I will. In 4 days. You need to write.

I want to write with my tongue all over your body.

His words, his desire, erase all the complicated feelings from before.

I’d like that too but it’ll have to wait.

I hate waiting. I love touching you.

Put that passion in your prose.

The job of a good muse is to make sure the artist gets his work done. But his words have triggered a longing in me, so I add,

But save a little bit of that passion for me xxx.

I need you NOW. I don’t like being apart.

Creation requires sacrifice.

I hear my mother calling. “Ava? Are you coming down?”

I have to go. Duty calls.

What about your duty to me?

You are a writer. I am your muse. Go write. TTYL.

I stare at the screen for another sixty seconds but it’s sullenly silent and blank. I hope he’s following my advice. I toss my phone back in my purse, change out of my blouse into a snug fitting hoodie, swap jeans for yoga pants, put my hair in a pony tail, and dab on a bit of lip gloss. Freshening up to me means getting comfortable, which will undoubtedly disappoint my mother, but our neighbours, the Simmonds, have seen me in diapers, school uniforms, and sweats, so I know they won’t care. They’re practically like family and I feel no need to dress up for them. Especially Warren, whose socks never matched let alone the rest of the colors and patterns of his wardrobe. I’m home now and I want to relax. Even muses need a break.

The doorbell rings and my mom bustles toward the foyer. With her out of the kitchen, I put my third carrot stick back on the veggie plate, reach into the bowl of potato chips, and grab as many as my hand can hold. I methodically feed myself the deep fried saltiness as I listen to front door pleasantries exchanged. My dad actually gets off his backside to shake Mr Simmonds’ hand but it only takes them a few hearty, howya doin’s before they navigate their way back to the den and the din of the football game. My mom and Mrs Simmonds—Caroline—sashay arm and arm back to the kitchen, the official realm of the wives on Thanksgiving.

“Ava, you gorgeous thing!” says Caroline coming straight toward me and clapping both manicured hands on either sides of my cheeks. I hope I’ve licked any chip evidence from my lips. “Have you grown again?” she says releasing my cheeks and stepping back to appraise me,

“Not any taller,” says my mother uncorking a bottle of wine.

“Oh, she’s beautiful, Rita,” said Caroline to my mom. “You must be so proud.”

I really like Caroline, but she and my mom tend to refer to their kids as prize show dogs.

“Warren, she’s in here!” barks Caroline.

I drop back onto my stool and reach for another handful of chips, until my mother sees me. Gracefully, I tilt my wrist toward the carrot sticks.

“How’s school, darling? In the final stretch, aren’t you?” says Caroline to me. She’s always interested in my life, which I appreciate.

“It’s going great. Busy.”

“I don’t know what happens with art. Will you have exams? I can’t imagine they can really test you on that stuff.”

I shake my head. “I have to be in a big senior art show in the new year. That’ll be eighty percent of my grade.”

“An art show? With an opening and everything? Wow! Rita, can you imagine? You’ll have a real artist in the family.”

My mother just nods and hands her old friend a glass of red wine. The liquid flares like ruby fire as it passes in front of a candle. The color catches my eye; it’s a color of desire, of lust. I need that color in my painting of Jenny. Alizarin Crimson mixed with Antique Red, maybe Carmine? A touch of ultramarine mixed with black…

“Can we come?”

“Pardon?” I say, having momentarily forgotten what we’re talking about.

“To the show? Can you invite friends as well as family?”

“Oh sure. It’s mostly for students and faculty but it’s always open to the public, to make us feel more nervous, I’m sure. But it’s a long way to go.”

“Don’t be silly. I’ll be there,” says Caroline. “We’ll make a weekend of it, won’t we, Rita?” My mother hasn’t even asked me about the dates yet and here Caroline is already planning a weekend. “I watched you finger painting in diapers, Ava. I wouldn’t miss this show for the world.”

As her words conjure up an image of me in diapers, Warren walks in, or rather shuffles. I notice his feet first, and his matching socks. His hands are stuffed in his pockets and he seems awkwardly out of place, though he’s been in this kitchen hundreds of times.

“Hey, Ava,” he says. And then I notice his face, which is several inches further up from the ground since I last saw him and has developed several more angles.

“Wow, Warren. You’ve grown.” Oh man, did I say that out loud? I sound just like our mothers. “Uh, I mean. You look great.” I blush and fumble with my words.

“You, too,” he says casually as he leans down to give me a hug. He smells soapy and clean. His broad shoulders around me make me feel like a small doll. This boy-next-door who’s always felt so brotherly to me, like a younger brother in fact, is now making me feel as if I’m climbing up the first big hill of a roller coaster.

I step back, shove my hands into the kangaroo pouch of my hoodie, and think of Logan back at school writing, missing me. I miss him, too, but the world of school and the world of home suddenly seem like two different planets.

“Rita!” bellows my father. “Bring us some beers.”

As if a switch has been flicked my mother puts down her wine glass, smiles, and turns toward the fridge.

“Mrs. Nichols, let me,” says Warren, beating her to the fridge in two strides.

“Oh, how nice of you,” says my mother, beaming at him.

“The least I can do,” he says politely. “Thanks for having us over.”

I watch him grab the bottles and nestle them in a bucket my mother has filled with ice. He moves awkwardly, as if he still isn’t comfortable in his own skin, but what nice skin it is. And hair, and teeth, and smile. Gosh, this is boring old Warren Simmonds? I grab another handful of chips. I will not let my mother catch me gawking. But she sees my chip grab and as soon as Warren leaves with the beers she tucks the bowl into a cupboard, out of sight and out of reach.

“Why don’t you go in and watch the game?” says my mom.

I stare at her. I stopped watching football with my dad years ago, once I realized I didn’t want to be Daddy’s Girl anymore.

“At least keep Warren company,” says Caroline with a slight plead in her voice. “You know how he hates sports.” She whispers it like it’s a horrible secret. I guess around Thanksgiving it is. And I’m just getting the hint that my mom and Caroline want a bit of privacy to talk. That’s fine by me. If I pick a good seat in the den, maybe I can secretly study Warren’s mysterious transformation.

After watching a few downs, Warren leans over the gap between our chairs. He nearly knocks the lamp off the small table next to him.

“How’s the art world?“ he whispers.

“The college art world is fine. As for the real world, I know little of that. How’s business at MIT?”

“Hey,” barks my dad. “Keep it down. We can’t hear the announcer.”

I roll my eyes, knowing full well he can hear the announcer because the volume’s up so loud. What he means is that’s
all
he wants to hear. To our mothers we might be show dogs but to our fathers we are just props or set decoration, proof of progeny that further defines their success, but better seen and not heard.

Warren leans a little closer so he can whisper a little quieter. I like the way his arms slope over his knees and how he looks up sideways through his eyelashes as if we’re conspiring.

“I told some friends I’d meet them later. Want to come?”

Warren has friends? And he’s inviting me to tag along? The tables have definitely turned.

Not even three hours has passed since I’ve arrived home and I already need to get a breather. If Warren is providing it, who am I to complain?

“Sure, why not?”

“Really? You’ll come?” His surprised smile harks back to earlier days of nerdiness and I can tell he’s hardly aware of his recent transformation and of the potential power it holds over the opposite sex.

“Let me put on some jeans first,” I say. “Give me ten minutes.”

“Take your time,” he says, staring in confounded admiration—of me or himself I’m not quite sure.

I make an effort to dress casually chic this time, even spritz on a bit of vanilla perfume. As I grab my purse I feel a tiny vibration within the pocket. Looking at my phone I see that I’ve missed six texts from Logan. Oops. The last one reads,

Your silence has forced me to start drinking. Consider yourself responsible for the outcome.

That text came through almost an hour ago. Who knows what shape he’s in by now.

I text back.

I’m here. Just got busy visiting with family. You should be writing rather than drinking. It’s better for your liver.

No reply. I frown at my phone for a few moments. Is he okay? Still no reply. Well, he’s a grown man and he needs this weekend to write. I shoulder my purse and head downstairs where Warren is waiting.