“What do you plan to do while I remain here like your human statue?”
“I don’t know.” I rise, running my palm over the front of his body to ensure that every piece is as it should be. “Probably sit on my bed and stare at you while eating popcorn.”
“Will you share some with me?”
“Maybe…” I lightly stroke the shape of his collarbone with my fingers toward his neck, lost in the space where the plaster ends and Foster begins.
The pads of my fingers crawl their way up and over the artificial barrier of the hardening cloth, landing on the man underneath, exploring the shape of his chin and jaw. Unmoving, Foster remains still as I dance my touch higher to his cheekbones and along his nose, as if my fingers are searching for what my brain registers in the drawings and sketches. However, my talent could never truly capture the work of beauty standing before me. It’s one of a kind, and I doubt that anyone could ever be so gifted to truly re-create something like Foster.
Moist lips press to the delicate skin inside my wrist, jolting me back to reality and out of the dream space of the moment I’ve submerged myself into.
“Sorry,” I mumble, disconnecting my touch from his face. “I got caught up a little…”
He releases the faintest grin. “I do, too, sometimes.”
“Yeah.” My eyes dart all over his set features, noting the white splotches. “Um…and I got plaster on your face.”
“Occupational hazard?”
“Unfortunately.” Wiping my hands on my apron, I back away from him and step toward the door. “I’m going to get a washcloth to wipe that off before it sets.”
“I’ll be right here, not going anywhere.”
“Yeah.”
I grunt to myself. A one-word sentence again?
I empty myself into the hallway and shut the door at my back, giving him some privacy and myself a moment to gather my scattered brain.
Where the hell did I go?
It’s not uncommon for me to get lost in my work, but it almost felt like I was getting lost in him.
Are the two worlds colliding, meshing, morphing, blurring, and breaking past the spoken and unspoken lines of what we claim to be?
Am I that oblivious to what’s happening between Foster and me?
No. This is just my imagination grasping on to Chandra’s words, nothing more.
I fill a bowl with soapy water, grab a washcloth from the kitchen, and reenter my room to find Foster exactly where I left him—half-naked and partially covered in plaster. Approaching him, I wring out the water from the rag, set the bowl aside, and then lightly begin to blot away the drying plaster on his face.
“Sorry about this—again,” I say, having to rub his cheekbone a little harder than might be considered gentle.
“Don’t worry about it.” He twinges slightly when I add pressure to remove the substance from the delicate space under his eye. “It was an accident.”
With a few more blots, all the white markings are removed, leaving his face as pristine as it was when he arrived. I then take the opportunity to clean up the rest of his body, wiping anyplace where the plaster accidentally touched unintended skin. Within the time it takes to remove the unwanted splatters, the cast has set to Foster’s body and is beginning to warm from the chemical process.
“It’s time,” I tell him, setting the cleansing wet cloth into the bowl. “Are you ready to get that thing off?”
“You have no idea,” he says, relief filtering through his voice.
“Was it really that bad?”
“No, but I’m starting to sweat—and not in a good way.”
“That doesn’t sound sexy.” I giggle, slowly slipping my fingers under the edges of the hardened mold to begin the process of breaking it away from his body.
“Yes. Sexy is not the adjective I would use.”
Finding a good grip, I wiggle and pry the cast from his chest, popping it off like a bottle cap, in one solid piece. Foster, still in his model position, gazes almost proudly at the finished product.
“You can see the details of my fingers,” he remarks, slowly lowering his hand away from his chest.
“Pretty cool, huh?” I question, holding out the replica for him to inspect.
He gently runs his palm along the inside of the mold. “More than cool.”
I smile, amused by his childlike fascination with such a simple process. Setting the hardened plaster mold in a safe place near my closet, I collect a towel from the clean laundry supply and hand it over to Foster, so he can wipe off the remaining layer of petroleum jelly from his skin.
“At least you’re moisturized,” I say as an offering in regard to the goopy substance.
“That’s an understatement.”
Foster wipes off the gooey mess the best he can, hands the towel back to me, and then crosses my bedroom toward where his things lie on the floor next to my desk.
“I need to get going,” he says, unzipping his bag and pulling out his clothes.
“Sure. I hope I didn’t make you late.”
He glances at the time on his phone, sets it on the desk next to his glasses, and then stands up with denim in his hands.
“It’ll be close, but I should be able to make it to class on time,” he says as he dresses, rapidly pushing his legs into his jeans. “No worries.”
Foster slips the T-shirt over his head and then his sweater, straightening them both out as he turns toward my desk to retrieve his other items. He places his signature dark frames over his face and then grabs his phone. His hand stills for a moment over the screen, and then he shoves it into his back pocket. Reaching back toward the desk, he grabs two sheets of paper.
“Are these what I think they are?” he asks, spinning toward me.
I step forward and peek at the early acceptance letters between his fingertips—one from Yale and the latest from Dartmouth that arrived just yesterday. Both are for their MBA programs.
“They aren’t recipes for apple pie,” I say, thumbing the top of one of the letters.
“You got into two really great programs at two amazing schools.”
“They must not have had enough art history majors as applicants and needed to fill a quota.”
“I wasn’t doubting why you got in.” He sets the papers back from where they came. “You have the grades, and I’m sure you’re…eclectic enough for their needs. I’m just really surprised you applied. You made it sound like you didn’t even want to go.”
“I don’t. Not really.”
“Then, why even go through the application process?”
“I told you.” I shrug. “Family tradition. Some things are inevitable.”
Foster steps tightly into my space, our chests nearly touching. It’s like there’s a thin barrier between us made of a delicate bubble just waiting to pop.
“It’s plain as day that you don’t belong in some corporate world designed by an Ivy League education. I’m not saying that as an insult, but it’s not who you are. I’m sure your family would understand if you traveled down a different road.”
“No, they wouldn’t,” I say, resolved. “I wish they would, but unfortunately, they never will. I’ve tried to convince them otherwise.”
“But if they care about you, they would know how unhappy you would be living like that.” The tips of his fingers flutter with my own. “I know how miserable you would be.”
Our hands fold together, clasping as one. His other palm drifts along the length of my arm, resting just above the elbow.
I’m speechless, unsure and—dare I even say—scared.
He knows me.
“Fozzie,” I say barely above a whisper.
He leans in, and I close my lids in anticipation of feeling his lips on mine.
Our breaths meet.
I can almost taste him.
There’s a light rap on the bedroom door.
“EJ?” Chandra calls, her voice tentative.
My eyes fly open, finding Foster seductively close.
“Yeah?” I call back, feeling caught.
“Can I come in for a sec?”
Foster and I exchange a glance, acknowledging the lost moment.
I back out of our magical bubble and then open my door, revealing a few inches of my dark-haired roommate’s face.
“What?” I question, trying not to sound annoyed.
She peeks over my head toward Foster and then lowers her voice to say, “Cal’s here.”
“What?” I half-shout, unsure I heard Chandra correctly. Did she say—
“Cal’s here,” my roommate repeats, her voice much lower than mine. “He’s waiting for you in the living room.”
“Why in the hell did you even let him in?”
“He said it was important, some legal matter, and he wasn’t going to leave until he saw you.”
My lip curls. “What the fuck?”
Foster clears his throat, reminding us of his presence.
“I need to get going,” he announces to both of us in the midst of our not-so-hushed conversation. “I’m going to be late.”
“Right. Of course,” I say almost in a daze, widening the door.
Chandra steps down the hall toward where Cal is waiting.
“I’ll walk you out,” I say to Foster.
This all feels so surreal.
Leading the way, I escort Foster to the main part of the apartment where Cal is casually sitting on the sofa with a motherfucking bouquet of flowers in his hand.
Roses.
Red ones.
The color of love.
I want to poke his eyes out.
What is he doing here?
I hope he pricks his finger—or his penis would suffice.
“EJ,” Cal says, rising from the couch to greet me. The collection of blazing crimson floral at the center of his chest is like a target of destruction.
I audibly grunt and give him an I’m-going-to-freaking-scratch-your-eyes-out look. He takes the hint and sits his ass back down, shifting his focus between Foster, who is close on my heels, and me.
Grabbing the knob to the front entrance, I face Foster, whose attention is clearly not on me but on Cal in all his rocker glory as he’s dressed in a leather jacket with bright blue hair. He’s wearing eyeliner, too.
Keeping it classy.
This is a disaster of epic proportions.
My ex is unexpectedly sitting on my couch with a romantic-looking bouquet of flowers and the guy…Foster…who I’m sleeping with, will likely—
What does it matter? We are just friends. That’s the deal.
“Thanks again for doing this,” I say to Foster, trying to focus him away from the train wreck on my couch. “I really appreciate it.”
“No problem,” he states, reaching for the door and opening it like he can’t leave fast enough. He gives another glance in Cal’s direction. “I hope it works out the way you want.”
“I think it will,” I reply, trying so hard to keep my shit together right now.
What in the ever-loving fuck is Cal doing here?
“I’ll see you at work,” he quickly adds as he walks out the door.
With little desire, I shut the door. Slowly, I spin around and cross my arms in preparation to battle the punk asshole who so boldly decided to show up at my apartment without an announcement or invitation.
Like a guard dog, Chandra busies herself in the kitchen area with Jeremy at her side, patiently waiting for the medieval shitstorm that’s about to go down in our living room. She and I exchange a look, and she acknowledges that she should stay right where she is. I turn my attention to a man who only possesses one brain cell because a smart person would have known better than to come near me after fucking around behind my back.
“Cal,” I sternly say, rounding the arm of the couch. I glare down at him. “What are you doing here?”
He rises from his seat, holding out the bouquet in my direction. “I brought you something.”
I raise my brows, giving him the are-you-serious look.
He pushes them further into my personal space, insistent.
“That’s so sweet of you.” I swipe the flowers from his hand and march my ass straight into the kitchen, slipping past Chandra and Jeremy. I open the cabinet below the sink and shove the bouquet into the trash. It might be a little dramatic, but fuck him.
Fake-dusting off my hands, I casually join Cal back in the living room.
“Sorry.” I smirk. “I wanted to put those in some water before they dried out. Now, would you mind telling me what in the hell you’re doing here?”
“Do you think we could speak in private?” Cal questions, gesturing toward our kitchen audience.
“Absolutely not. You don’t get to spend time alone with me ever again. Now, you have exactly sixty seconds to explain to me why you’re here.”
He presents me with a large envelope.
“What’s this?” I ask.
“A proposal.”
“Cut the shit. Our romantic days ended the moment you started poking the groupies,” I sneer.
“I wasn’t screwing the groupies. It’s not like we even had any.”
“So, what? She was just some random whore you picked up in a drive-through?”
He growls. “Are we really going to do this?”
“That’s up to you. You can spend the remaining thirty seconds however you like. I suggest you start by telling me you’re sorry for being an asshole.”
“Oh, c’mon!” he exclaims, tossing up his hands. “Like you really cared about me in the first place.”
“Who are you to judge how I felt about you, you…you penis muncher? I gave you almost a year of my life. I was planning my future with you, for you.”
“Sure you were,” he says full of sarcasm. “We both know that’s a lie.”
“You’re such a prick. And why would you even think that the way I felt about you was a lie? I never cheated on you. I supported you throughout our entire relationship—going to all your shows, loaning you money when you needed equipment, or that time your gig fell apart and I called in a favor to a friend to get you a new one. There’s more than enough proof in my actions. I gave you everything I was, everything, and you shit on it. You shit on us by sticking your dick in someone else when I went home for the summer.”
“Yeah, I heard all about your summer.”
“What is that supposed to mean? I was working at a museum. That was all.”
He shakes his head, holding the envelope in my direction once again. “Will you just take this?”
With aggression, I snatch the envelope from his hands, tear through the top flap, and withdraw the sheets of paper. I scan through the pages, gathering very quickly that it’s a copyright release request.
“Copyright of what?” I ask, confused.
“It should be on the first page.”
I shuffle back to the front sheet and examine the words more closely, discovering that a small record company wants the license to distribute the branding logo I did for Cal’s band when he and I first met.
“You guys were signed,” I utter unbelieving, still flipping through the pages.
“Yeah, a few months ago. They want to put us on tour soon, too.”
I stack the papers together, shove them into the envelope, and hand it back to Cal. “Congratulations, but I’m not signing this.”
He reaches into his rear pocket and offers me a small gray-shaded square. “Here. They sent me with this. It’s only half to show good faith because they can’t legally give you the rest until the contract is signed.”
I reluctantly take it into my hand and assess the check from the record company. It’s not a sizable amount even though it’s only a portion, but it’s likely fair.
“I don’t need this,” I say, waving the monetary offer through the air.
“Oh, I know you don’t.” He laughs. “Your family has you set for life. You don’t need anything from anyone.”
My hands drop to my sides. “What do you kn
ow about my family?”
“Not too much, in all honesty, which is kind of weird, seeing how we were together for so long.”
“It’s not like I ever met your parents,” I respond in defense. “So, what’s the big deal?”
“Well, when you come from a family like yours, I kind of get the feeling it is a big deal.”
“Why do you say that?”
“You don’t know, do you?”
“Obviously not. I have zero clue what you’re talking about.”
“Your mother pulled me aside when she came to visit you last spring.”
“She did?” I ask, incredulous.
“Yep.” He hooks his thumbs through his belt loops. “Told me about how you couldn’t possibly be in love with me because…how did she put it? I’m not from the right breeding. That a guy like me and a young lady like her daughter would never have a future. That I would likely never be able to support you, let alone myself, and that I was low-class and not worthy of someone like you.”
“She said those things to you?”
“Yes.” He nods in affirmative for emphasis. “Of course, I might be paraphrasing a little, but you get the idea.”
“She doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”
“Maybe, maybe not, but in any case, she was sure to let me know that anything between you and me would never last, that I was likely just a fling before you settled down with some hotel heir.”
I shut my lids, shielding the world from my frustration due to my family’s oppressive ways. I’m just a cog in a master plan not of my making.
When will it stop?
“Why didn’t you tell me this?” I question, feeling blindsided.
“I don’t know.” He shoves his hands into his jacket pockets. “Maybe because I believed her.”
“Why would you?” I question, shocked by his statement.
“Honestly?”
“Yes, honestly. Tell me.”
“Because the reality is, I never really felt that close to you. When we were together, it was like you were never able to truly open yourself up. And after meeting your mother that wonderful Sunday afternoon, I realized that there was a lot more to you than you’d ever let on. Way more.”
“Are you talking about my family’s money?”
“Yeah, that and”—Cal gestures a hand up and down the length of my body—“this is all a facade.”
More Than Water Page 19
