“Well, first you’d have to openly announce you were looking to fill a position and allow candidates to apply. From the pool, we would select any you were interested in, hold formal interviews, then once we had a student selected, you’d meet with me to discuss salary for said candidate, and I’d take it above for approval.”
I tap my lips and think about her answer. “What if I simply want to offer it to someone? I’m not saying I have any particular choices in mind, but I’m just asking everything I can think of now.”
Our plates arrive as she, in true Adrianna fashion, goes over every detail step-by-step. She leaves nothing out, nothing to chance, and nothing left unsaid. We’re nearly at dessert before all the gory details are laid before me. “So I would have to present a convincing case in order to offer rather than entertain. It’s good that I know what I’m up against.”
“What are you hinting at, dear boy?”
“Christ, Anna, don’t call me that. You can’t have me as your colleague then call me boy.”
“It seems you are deflecting, Tristan.” Her shoulders rise and fall as she sighs. “You always dive into work too deeply this time of year. It’s like you want to hide from her memory, dear. Is that what this is? A new project or goal to keep yourself from thinking about her?”
The food I’ve just put into my stomach starts to turn at her question. “I could never keep myself from thinking of her. She’s in my head every single day. In my dreams and in my nightmares. Escape isn’t possible, Anna, nor is it wanted.”
“I’m not trying to upset you. You know I just care a great deal.” My mother is glad I have Adrianna near since I’m a continent away from her, especially, as she would say, in times like these. “Tristan. You need to stop torturing yourself.”
I watch the drops of water fall like rain silently from the glass edge to the table top. Each droplet forms its own thought in my mind. This is your penance. Remember her always. You should be better. You are selfish.
“She wouldn’t want this for you. I know your mother doesn’t. I know your father doesn’t. I’ve seen you create some of your best personal work in the last three years. You’ve been pouring all the emotion you don’t have a place for out of you, but I’d gladly see it all disappear if I could see your smile return.”
“Aren’t you crossing a line, Professor?” I coldly scold her.
“Fuck the lines, Tristan.”
Her curse echoes around us like the screech of a hawk in a canyon. I nearly want to smile but it startles me. I’ve never heard her utter that expletive ever. “Anna. The language.”
“Don’t act like you have virgin ears. We both know there is nothing virgin left about you.”
“Anna, stop!” I say in a whispered growl.
“I have promised you since day one that I will always guide you and make you see the hard things, even when you fight me because you don’t want to look at them. You’re lashing out at me now because I’ve struck a nerve, Tristan. Don’t bottle it in. You have to let it out or you’ll explode. The studio needs to see it. You need to see it.”
I tap my fingers against the table as nervous, frustrated energy is pumping through my veins.
“I shouldn’t have snapped at you, Anna, but Raissa is something that I can’t discuss right now. Stop pushing me.”
Chapter 4
Tristan
It’s been nearly a week since my conversation with Adrianna, and I’ve spent countless hours thinking, processing, painting, and playing. Those things are usually all I need to fix whatever issue is happening in my head, but sometimes it takes more than that.
Before today, if the urge, the frustration, presented itself, I would have called Katya, but now, for some reason, her company sounds positively atrocious.
So tonight, I will walk.
The walk from campus to my car is longer than I’d like it to be sometimes, but there are days when I love the chance to use the quiet to decompress, to think.
Especially today, after quite a long, stressful day that I’d like to put behind me.
I had a Zoom meeting with a colleague I hadn’t spoken to in many, many years and she asked how my Raissa was doing. It’s not her fault that she didn’t know, so I don’t hold that against her, but breaking the news to her wasn’t something I’d wish to do on a daily basis. I thought we’d told any and every one who would have cared to know, but obviously, I was wrong.
I had to take time away from my lessons, away from grading, to sit in my office, in the dark and take a long pull from the bottle of scotch hidden in my bottom desk drawer. That reprieve and hiding from anyone who could see the tears pooling in my eyes, kept me from putting a hole in the wall. My fists have received enough damage from my grief over the years. It took an hour or two before I was ready to face my work or face any students who needed something from me. They say grief will heal with time, but I think that’s an absolute farce. Grief is etched into your soul and hooks itself in with jagged, merciless teeth that will stay a part of you forever.
The sun is just beginning to set when I turn off the main path and onto another sidewalk that runs parallel to a long row of historic buildings and a park, just off to the side that tends to be empty this time of the day, which serves as my shortcut to get to the parking lot I use.
The air is a bit crisp tonight. I wish I’d brought a scarf or a different jacket with me, I lament to myself.
The sound of distant voices pulls my attention. I usually ignore whatever is going on around me because the last thing I have time for is anything happening outside of my own sphere, but a certain voice peaks my interest.
When I reach the center of the park where a brick building resides, housing refreshments normally, it sits empty due to the late hour, I see at least six to seven people huddled together with a variety of different lights and large, round reflectors being held up high.
“Can we get a touch up on her lipstick?” a large man with a camera in his hand commands and a small blonde rushes over to someone, who I’m not able to see, to follow orders.
“Is what I’m doing working for you, Brian?”
The small voice piques my curiosity, because it sounds very, very familiar.
“It’s working, it’s beautiful. We just need a bit more from him.”
I continue forward, adjusting the angle so I can see what the camera is focused upon and when my vision is unobstructed, I freeze.
My dancing flower, a very tardy petal, is dressed in a very revealing white gown that hangs on her body like it was made for her. There is a tall, topless man standing next to her, taking direction from the aforementioned Brian, with dark, ripped jeans.
And his arm is around her.
I squeeze my hands into fists, keeping the jealous animal inside of me at bay. She isn’t mine. She is a student. She isn’t mine to be possessive over.
“All right, Nora, Gavin. Let’s continue,” the photographer bellows, and everyone scurries back into position.
I take a few steps closer, still remaining partially hidden by the shadows. I wouldn’t be seen in the peripheral, but if someone were to stare in my direction, they’d know I was here.
Just like the night I watched her dance, I watch her pose, arch, and angle her body for each shot. She leans against the wall, or turns and leans against her shoot partner, intimately caressing his chest or bending her body to allow him to kiss her neck.