He stands, and I’m a statue glued to the floor.
“When your ex came to your apartment that day, I didn’t like it one bit. I hated the way it made me feel. At first, I thought it was jealousy, which I played off as being normal since we were sleeping together, but then I realized it wasn’t just that—the simple act of coveting something that wasn’t mine. It was something else, something more.”
Words.
So many words foreign to his mouth fly into the stillness and linger between us.
“The thing is, Evelyn…” Foster rubs his forehead. “Fuck, Evelyn! Do you know how hard it was for me to tell everyone that was your name tonight?”
“No,” I reply, startled, not fully comprehending. “I had no idea.”
“I guess you wouldn’t, would you?” He shakes his head, muttering to himself, “It was all part of the show. The act. The deal. Our arrangement. But it wasn’t for me. It meant more.”
“Fozzie, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Fozzie.” He laughs. “Every time you say that, I always think…”
“What do you think?”
“I’m tired of pretending, Evelyn—pretending that we’re just friends, and tonight, pretending that we’re a couple.” He drags a palm across his face. “But most of all, I’m exhausted from pretending that I don’t love you—not only to you, but to myself.” Foster lowers his voice. “I’ve been falling in love with you from the moment I met you even though I’ve tried so hard not to.” He takes three calm steps toward me so that we’re an arm’s length apart. “So, I’m asking, was it ever real for you?”
My world comes to a standstill. Silence ticks and tocks between us.
“Yeah. It was,” I whisper tentatively and somewhat shakily. Releasing the pent-up emotions, I let them out slowly, so they don’t explode all at once. “It is.”
“I don’t want to be your friend, and I’m not interested in dating.”
I step back.
I blink.
My gut drops like a violent avalanche, and wrathful thoughts emerge.
“You’re a real asshole, you know that? And confusing as hell.” Circling around him to the bed, I stuff my blue dress into the bag. I gather my shoes from the floor, shove them next to my dress, and then close up my luggage. Storming in his direction, I heatedly continue, “You tell me you love me. You make me admit that I feel the same, and now, you tell me that you want nothing to do with me?”
“No,” he insists, grabbing me by the arm as I’m entering the bathroom to retrieve the rest of my things. “You’re not listening. It’s simple. I don’t want anything less than being with you. I don’t want to be friends or date or pretend or go through any more of these stupid motions that keep getting in the way of what I really want. You. I just want you. Anything else is without you.”
“You want me?”
“Yes.” His face softens. “So. Much.” His eyes close.
I melt from the inside out, and the burn of frustration fizzles.
“Is this real?” I ask, drinking in his sincerity. “No deals or stipulations? No pretenses or rules?”
“No rules,” Foster quietly utters, relaxing his grip.
Nodding, my body replies before the words can be formulated. “I want you, too.”
He slides his palm down the length of my arm, tenderly dancing his fingertips with my own. “I love you, Evelyn.” Leaning in, he grazes my earlobe with his mouth. “For longer than you might have known.”
“Likewise.”
He chuckles against my cheek. “That’s all you have to say? Likewise?”
“Just shut up and kiss me.”
“I was getting there.”
Foster cups my face with both hands, and there’s no question in my mind about how he feels. It’s been there all along. He’s been asking me to love him with his expressions for months, and I was too blinded by denial to see it.
His lips float across my own, teasing and just out of reach. I silently gasp in anticipation as he marks every part of my mouth with his phantom touch. Patiently, I allow the moment to build for what’s to be our first kiss. The others don’t count because they were just surface kisses—the kinds that happen without any care, skimming along the shield we carry before us. This kiss will consummate a part of myself with him that is newly revealed—the living and breathing substance pulsating between both of us.
With noted restraint, Foster lands his lips upon mine, moving them languidly so that every crevice and cell receives the same amount of care and attention. His tongue asks entrance into my mouth, and I willingly welcome it. The familiar taste of him is like a dull echo in comparison to the new flavor he possesses now that his kisses are tainted with affection, the truest kind. It’s currently seizing my body with a keen insistence and searing its way into my heart.
We’re finding one another in a new way, laced with a sense of commitment.
Foster lowers his palms down the length of my arms to the bottom of my tank. He flirts with the hem, his fingers skimming along the space just below my navel.
“Yes,” I answer to all of the questions he isn’t asking.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Doesn’t matter. My answer is yes, Fozzie.”
“I like the sound of that.”
My shirt is quickly swept up and over my head, landing on the ground. I help him out of his, adding it to the pile on the floor, and then I press my breasts against his glorious bare skin, returning his kisses and holding him tight. Foster grips the back of my thighs, just under my ass, and lifts me from the carpet, shuffling us to the bed. He lays me down, our lips still sealed, and scoots our bodies up toward the headboard.
“Evelyn,” he enunciates, trailing his fingers along the curve of my waist.
“What is it?”
“It’s just you.” He presses his lips to the sensitive space above my collarbone. “That’s all.”
Branding my skin, Foster kisses me further down my body, between my breasts, to my navel, and lands a final pucker at my hip. I comb my fingers through his hair, along his cheek, and on the shape of his neck. He dips his fingers into the waistband of my sleep shorts, tugging them down the length of my legs and tossing them aside. Biting my lip, holding myself in place, I fixate on him as he drops his boxers to the floor, revealing his miraculous nude form.
Stepping away, Foster digs through his bag, pulls out a condom, and then crawls over my body where I’m waiting on the bed. I take the contraceptive from his hand as he dots delicate kisses across my neck.
“Foster?”
“Hmm?” he mumbles.
“I don’t want to use this.”
He releases his mouth from the space just below my chin. “Are you sure?”
I hold the unopened square wrapper between us. “We’re both clean. I’m on birth control, and I haven’t been with anyone else since you and I started sleeping together.”
“I haven’t been with anyone since you either.”
“Sounds like we’ve been exclusive for some time then.”
Foster wraps his hand around mine, crinkling the object in question. “Are you saying that we’re a couple?”
“I think we’d make a pretty good one.”
“I’d have to agree with you on that.”
He snatches the condom from my hand, tosses it to the ground, and then laces his fingers with my own as we gaze intensely into one another. Circling an arm around my waist, he presses his body flush with mine, every inch of my front touching his. I hitch my leg over his hip, glide an arm into the space between his ribs and bicep, and kiss him lustfully, inviting his tongue into my mouth.
Sliding an arm between us, Foster guides himself into my entrance, slow and steady, breathing jaggedly through every inch of the procession.
“Just so you know,” he states with evident control in his voice, his mouth on mine, “I don’t think I’ll be able to last very long. This no-condom thing is like night and day.”
&n
bsp; “No worries.” I nibble gently on his lip. “We can do round two in a little bit. Let’s just call this appetizer sex.”
Holding me tight, Foster rolls to his back so that I’m on top. “An all-nighter then?”
“If you’re up for it. We do have some time between the sheets to make up for.”
He thumbs my lower lip. “Not to mention all of the missed I-love-yous.”
“Especially those.” I kiss his sweet mouth. “I love you, Foster Blake.”
Taking a step back, I fiddle with the ends of my hair and look over my installation in the classroom studio. It’s all or nothing from here.
“Looks good,” Wolfgang comments as he assesses my fully set-up project ready for inspection by Professor Turner.
“Do you mean the work is good, or it’s ready?” I ask, my focus roaming up and down the colorful sculpture of Foster’s bust depicting an artful array of human elements.
“Both.”
“Be honest. What do you think?”
“It’s different for you.” He circles the freestanding art piece. “Definitely a new direction.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“It’s not. It’s good to see that you’re growing. I never would have expected something like this from you. Most of your work in the past has been more fanciful.”
I join him at his side. “Like a bit of whimsy?”
“No, like from another world. This is more grounded.”
“I still don’t know if it’s a good thing or a bad thing.”
“Trust me, it’s good,” he confirms. “This is one of the most serious pieces you’ve ever done. It’s extremely well thought out.”
“Figures, given my muse.” Foster.
It’s been a few weeks since Foster and I solidified ourselves as a couple, taking out the guesswork of what we are and filling in the grayness of our relationship. It’s comforting to finally have the freedom to express our true feelings to one another.
“How is Mr. Molecular?” Wolfgang questions, straightening his canvas on the wall. “Still working out chemical theories?”
“Pretty much.” I tie my hair into a ponytail, nervously waiting for our teacher’s arrival. “His last final exam is today.”
“Any big plans for you two over break?” he asks, referring to the week hiatus between quarters that begins tomorrow.
“I wish. He’s going out of town for most of it.”
“What did you do? Scare him off with your wild ways in the bedroom?”
I give him a bite-me look.
“Don’t pretend you aren’t a sex-tress,” he teases. “You can always tell who’s a minx in the sheets, and you, my friend, are a crazy kitty.”
“Are you trying to get a rise out of me before this critique?”
“Maybe,” he singsongs. “Is it working?”
“No, just the standard eye roll.”
“I guess that will have to do.”
With everything set in place, Wolfgang shoves his hand in his pockets, and we both focus on our final projects awaiting judgment.
“So, who’s up for crit today?” he asks me.
Two students, one guy and one girl, pace and wait on the other side of the room.
“Just you, me, Grayson, and Tawnya,” I tell him. “We’re the last ones. Everyone else is done already. He did them earlier in the week.”
“Do you know if he’s been accepting many for the show?”
“I do, and it’s less than I expected.”
“Really?” he asks, astonished.
“Yeah. Grayson told me earlier that he’s turned away over half of the class, claiming their work wasn’t good enough for installation. That surprised me because some of the pieces were noteworthy.”
“Does that mean they failed?”
“No.” I shake my head. “Everyone who completed the work and has given a reasonable defense passed. So, that’s everyone, except for Brad, who didn’t even bother to turn anything in. He was a no-show.”
“Da-amn,” he mutters, emphasizing the second part of the one-syllable word.
“Mr. Turner is making me kind of nervous.” I bite the inside of my cheek.
“Why? Based on his criteria, sounds like you’ll easily pass. Plus, your work is respectable and will speak for itself.”
“I’m not worried about passing. It’s the show I need,” I stress with the realization that this is an undeniable opportunity. This show will validate my work—not only to my peers and my family, but also to myself. “It’s make or break for me, Wolfie.”
Professor Turner enters the room with very little grandeur, plopping a tattered leather briefcase on the front desk.
“Save the best for last,” says our opinionated professor, circling around the studio space. “I hope that saying holds some weight because not much has impressed me in your group.” He rubs his hands together. “So, who wants to go first?”
“I will,” Grayson, the small-framed guy with bleach-blond hair, states.
“Brave of you.” Professor Turner pivots in Grayson’s direction. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”
Wolfgang, Tawnya, and I corral toward our respective projects while our teacher interrogates Grayson about his work—a mixed media piece comprised of photographs and metal. Bold and sure, Grayson presents his ideas on industrial society over the next few minutes.
My palms sweat.
I fidget.
The whole process is nerve-racking, and I’m beginning to wish that I’d presented first instead of my classmate because anticipation sucks.
After some dialogue, Professor Turner shakes Grayson’s hand, congratulating him on excellent work, and welcomes him to be a part of his gallery show in a week. He then steps toward Tawnya’s project without any announcement.
It’s immediately apparent that our professor is not impressed with her work—a display of paper airplanes to represent the transient nature of human life. I overhear words like simplistic and underwhelming, and my anxiety intensifies. After a few short minutes and little conversation, the professor tells Tawnya that her work is passable, but he doesn’t have a spot for her in the gallery show at this time.
Leaving Tawnya with unshed tears, Professor Turner continues down the line and pauses in front of my work.
“Okay, EJ,” he says, observing my sculpture full of lines and color. “Explain to me what you’ve got here.”
I swallow and then begin to present my work as confidently as possible. “This is a representation of man as science.”
He rubs the scruff on his chin. “Go on.”
“Humans are all made up of the same substances, a balance of elements and molecules, crafted together in a similar pattern. In some ways, the human race is nothing more than a series of clones.”
He steps closer to my work.
“Chemically,” I continue, “we’re all the same, but there’s an aspect of each individual that can’t be quantified. It can only be qualified. As humans, we’re scientifically similar, but perspective is what makes us unique. That is what I’m exploring here. The perception of man’s individuality and likeness to each other and how, essentially, they’re rooted from the same source.”
“And this is something that interests you?” He scrutinizes my work. “Something you have a passion for?”
“I think we all have a desire to know what makes us what and who we are, and I’m no different.”
“Is that all?” His head tilts.
A cold sweat erupts at the base of my neck. “It is. That, and what you see before you.”
“Okay then.”
Professor Turner silently cocks his head from side to side. He steps even closer to my piece and then further away, looking at it with one eye open and then both. The prolonged lack of words streaming across the space of the ticking minutes builds a considerable doubt within me.
“I’m at an impasse, Ms. Cunning,” Professor Turner finally announces, still focused on my piece.
“How so?
” My voice shakes. Fuck.
“Technically, the work is very strong. Your brushstrokes and use of color are extremely compelling. Your message is undoubtedly clear, and it’s definitely passable work.”
“Thank you.”
He nods.
“But,” I breathe, “it’s not good enough for the show, is it?”
“You see, this is the conundrum, EJ.” He circles to face me. “Your work is definitely good, good enough to show, but…”
“But.” I seal my lids shut. “But is never good.”
“I’m sorry, but it doesn’t move me in the way it should, and I tend to follow my instincts on these things.” He observes my work once again. “It’s a pity, too, because the composition is so close.”
My world comes crashing down. “I’m sorry to disappoint you.”
“You haven’t disappointed me. You just haven’t convinced me.”
“Of what?” I question, always the pupil.
“That it means something…or rather, that it answers any questions.”
“But isn’t that the point?” I stress, calling forth one of the many lessons I’ve learned over the years. “Not necessarily to find the answers yet to ask the questions?”
“True.”
“And have I failed at that?” I debate, unable to submit to defeat. It’s not in my blood.
“No, you haven’t.”
“But it’s still not good enough for your gallery show?”
“No.” He exhales audibly. Staring at the colorful bust, he cocks his head in thought.
We’re all silent.
Finally, he turns to me and says, “See me after class.”
“Sure.”
“You’ve passed, in case you were wondering.”
“Thank you.”
Professor Turner then moves down the line of students, focusing on the final piece presented by Wolfgang.
My friend has one of the oddest and most unique works I’ve ever seen. His depiction on violence in society is shown using real dyed locks of hair tightly braided, scattered, and strategically placed across a sticky-looking canvas that drips with hues of bliss and blood, all at once. It’s weird and amazing.
The two men discuss the project at length. It’s clear as day that our teacher is in awe of Wolfgang’s strange and intriguing work. Quickly, I gather that my friend will earn a spot in the coveted show. The professor can’t stop boasting and asking questions. He’s come alive in front of the piece. He’s obviously moved.
More Than Water Page 24
