That newfound freedom was so all-consuming I didn’t notice I’d forgotten to date until all my girlfriends in the freshman dorm started spending Saturday nights with their boyfriends. Seeing them snuggled up on the couches in our rec room, watching scary movies and making out in between bites of popcorn made me feel left out all over again, the way I had back when Harlow and my high school friends giggled over prom dress choices and whether or not to get on birth control before the big night.
I made finding a guy of my own more of a priority, but every time I found a cutie to take to art openings or dance parties on the town square in our little Virginia college town, I would eventually end up in the friend zone. Without fail, within two to three months, the man in question would tell me what a wonderful person he thought I was, beg for the chance to stay friends, and then express his desire to date someone he was more attracted to.
They didn’t say the last part most of the time, but despite what people think about art majors, I’m not stupid.
I was more than capable of reading between the lines.
But then Vince, an art history major, and I started dating the end of my senior year. He was the first boyfriend to last a full six months and the first who seemed to enjoy kissing me as much as I enjoyed kissing him. And he was moving to the city after graduation, too, so we wouldn’t have to deal with the stress of a long-distance relationship!
Everything seemed to be going pretty well until that steamy August night when he dumped me like a hot potato.
No, like something less exciting than a hot potato. He dumped me like a cold lump of oatmeal someone had sloshed into his palm—unflavored oatmeal without so much as a teaspoon of maple syrup to make it more enticing than eating paste.
“Done!” Pete shouts, bolting up from his chair so fast that it tumbles over onto the tile behind him. He doesn’t bother righting it before cruising around the table and thrusting his paper into my face.
“Great. Let’s see what you discovered.” I hold it back far enough to study his work, fighting the urge to frown as I take in the empty top of the iceberg and the wild slashes of red and orange beneath it.
I hate giving my students critical feedback, especially on the first day. Putting yourself out there creatively is hard enough without someone jumping down your throat with criticism your first time out of the artist gate.
So, I force a smile and add, “This is a solid start. What are these slashes symbolizing for you?”
“Fire,” he says, grinning. “Because I’m fire on the ice.”
It takes all my strength to keep my side-eye under control. “Okay, but the assignment was to draw things you feel contribute to you losing your temper during a game. Could the flames maybe symbolize something from your past? A memory that makes you feel fiery and irritable, for example?”
He shrugs. “Sure. Can I go now?”
My shoulders slump as I sigh. “Of course. Go ahead. We’ll try again on Monday.” Maybe, by the end of the weekend, I’ll have figured out a way to keep my reluctant students on task.
“Cool, can I be done, too?” the blond guy asks, holding up a paper that seems to be filled with doodles of pizza. “I’m starving. Need to grab a few slices before happy hour or I’ll get wasted. I’ve got a low tolerance on an empty stomach.”
“Pussy,” a deep voice pipes up from the opposite end of the table.
I turn to see a guy with hands the size of the Incredible Hulk’s holding up his paper with a shit-eating grin that makes more sense as he adds, “Speaking of pussies. That’s what I drew. It symbolizes how much I hate refs who bitch about things getting a little rough on the ice and how much it sucked to grow up with three little sisters and one bathroom. There was never any room in the cabinets for my shit. They were always full of pads and tampons.”
“That must have been frustrating.” I step up to collect his drawing, cheeks going hot as I take in the highly detailed sketches of female genitalia, each one more intricate and original than the last. I clear my throat, but my voice still emerges as a squeak as I say, “These are actually really good.”
“Yeah?” the guy asks, laughing as he adds, “Then why do you look like you’re about to toss your cookies, teach?”
“Aw, teacher’s blushing,” Sassy Sven pipes up. “Look what you did, Laser. You’ve got our sweet little sheep all flustered.”
“I’m n-not flustered,” I stammer unconvincingly as the rest of the players push back their chairs, either abandoning their work unfinished or tossing it playfully on the card table in front of me on their way by. “Please come with a good attitude on Monday.” I raise my voice to be heard over the sound of men grabbing their things and chatting as they head for the door. “We’ll be working with clay. If you like what you make, I can take it to the studio and fire it for you. That way you can keep it as a souvenir of our time together.”
My last sentence is shouted into the sudden silence as the last player disappears through the open door.
No, not the last player.
Ian is still here, I realize, as he appears on the other side of the card table and adds his paper to the top of the pile.
He shoots me a sympathetic smile and shrugs. “Seriously, don’t worry about them, Evie. They’re idiots. You’re never going to get through to them, but that’s their fault, not yours.”
“Oh, I’ll get through to them,” I say with more confidence than I feel. Forcing a smile, I add, “And I’ll see you at happy hour. I’m meeting my roomies there at six.”
“Cool,” he says, adding with a laugh, “It’s still so weird that you’re old enough to drink.”
“Have been for almost three years now,” I say, surprised to find irritation tickling at the back of my neck as I add, “I’ll be twenty-four in December.” The irritated feeling gets worse as I glance down at Ian’s paper to see two stick people with hockey pucks and nothing at the top of the iceberg. Glancing back up at him, I tap two fingers onto the paper. “What is this?”
“My drawing,” he says, chuckling again. “I can’t draw, either.”
“First of all, everyone can draw,” I insist. “Secondly, this wasn’t about honing your artistic skills, it was about expressing yourself. I don’t see any of you in this drawing, Ian. And you didn’t follow the directions for the assignment.”
His gray-blue eyes widening, he says, “Okay. Sorry, Evie, I’ll try harder next time.”
“Please do,” I say, adding in a tight voice, “The others look up to you. If you take this seriously, there’s a better chance they will, too. And honestly, this could be good for you, Ian. I know you aren’t one of the team members with anger issues, but we all have suppressed emotions. Especially men who play professional sports. Our society puts a lot of pressure on you guys to ignore your feelings and be tough all the time, and that isn’t healthy.”
He nods, a new respect in his gaze. “You’re right. I’ll bring my A game on Monday, and you and your friends’ first round is on me. How’s that?”
“That sounds like my generous boyfriend,” a female voice purrs from the doorway. “Hey, Evie, how are you, doll?”