Not that I’d ever had an English professor who looked like that.
He didn’t launch into a lecture about Jane Eyre, though. He also wasn’t staring at me the way I was staring at him. He was frowning at my Lake Michigan shoreline canvases where they sat propped against my bedroom wall, as though confused about what he was looking at. His arms were folded tightly across his broad chest as he scowled, which absolutely did not make me think about what his bare chest had looked like the other night. Or the way it ostensibly looked right that very second beneath his too-formal clothing.
“I’m sorry I woke you up,” I offered, to steer my thoughts towards safer ground.
He waved a hand. “It’s fine. But . . . what are those?” He nodded in the direction of my landscapes.
“You mean my landscapes?”
“Is . . . is that what those are?” His eyebrows rose. He stepped into the room, as though to take a closer look. “You made these?”
He sounded and looked at least as confused as my grandfather did whenever he saw one of my pieces—but he didn’t seem horrified. He also didn’t look or sound particularly complimentary or blown away by my creations, though. Which was valid. I’d long since made peace with the fact that my art wasn’t everyone’s cup of tea.
But this series was probably the most broadly accessible work I’d done in years. For starters, it was obvious these were lakeside images. If I was being honest, after the compliments he’d paid me on my silly little sketches on our notes to each other, part of me had hoped he’d immediately understand—and appreciate—what I was trying to do with these canvases.
“I made them, yes,” I confirmed. I tried to sound confident, though my voice was shaking a little.
“And you mean to hang them up?” Frederick eyed the nail I’d just hammered into the wall. “In here?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?” he asked, striding towards my canvases. He looked down at them, hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his trousers. He seemed utterly bewildered. “I grant you that the painting hanging here previously was dated, but—”
“It was hideous.”
He glanced at me, the right corner of his mouth ticking up in amusement. “That is fair. It was my mother’s, not mine. But Cassie . . .”
He stood up, shaking his head.
“Yeah?”
“It’s trash,” he said, emphasizing the final word.
My hackles rose. I’d heard this sort of criticism before and was an expert at just brushing it off. But after the excitement of learning about the art exhibition a few hours ago, I wasn’t in the mood.
“My art is not trash,” I said, defiantly.
Frederick looked at the canvas again, really peering at it this time—as though trying to decide whether he’d been right in his initial assessment.
He shook his head again. “But . . . but it is trash.”
A beat passed before I realized he meant that literally.
“Oh.” I cringed inwardly. “I mean—yes, okay. It’s made of trash.”
He raised an amused eyebrow. “I believe that’s what I just said.”
It wasn’t exactly what he’d just said, but I let it drop. “Yes,” I said, feeling my face grow warm with embarrassment over the misunderstanding. “You did.”
“I admit I don’t understand.” He shook his head. “Based on the parts of this . . . this scene that are not covered in refuse, and the drawings you have done for me, I know you are an artist with talent. Maybe I have old-fashioned views, but I simply don’t understand why you would spend your time creating something like this.” He shrugged his shoulders. “The sort of art I am used to seeing is more . . .”
I raised an eyebrow. “More what?”
He bit his lip, as though searching for the right words. “Pleasant to look at, I suppose.” He shrugged again. “Scenes from nature. Little girls wearing frilly white dresses and playing beside riverbanks. Bowls of fruit.”
“This piece shows a beach and a lake,” I pointed out. “It’s a scene from nature.”
“But it’s covered in refuse.”
I nodded. “My art combines objects I find with images I paint. Sometimes what I find and incorporate is literal trash. But I also feel that my art is more than just trash. It’s meaningful. These pieces aren’t just flat, lifeless images on canvas. They say something.”
“Oh.” He came even closer to the landscapes, kneeling so he could peer at them up close. “And what does your art . . . say?”
His nose was just a few inches from an old McDonald’s Quarter Pounder wrapper I’d laminated to the canvas so it looked like it was rising out of Lake Michigan. I’d meant for it to represent capitalism’s crushing stranglehold on the natural world. Also, it just sort of looked cool.
But I decided to give him a broader explanation.
“I want to create something memorable with my art. Something lasting. I want to give people who see my works an experience that won’t fade away. Something that will stay with them long after they see it.”
He frowned skeptically. “And you accomplish that by displaying ephemera others throw away?”
I was about to counter by telling him that even the prettiest painting in the fanciest museum faded from memory once the patrons went home. That by using things other people throw away, I took the ephemeral and make it permanent in a way no pretty watercolor ever could.
But then, all at once, I noticed how close we were standing. During our conversation he must have crept closer by increments until now there were just a scant few inches of space separating us. My mind flashed back to the other night—my wet hair dripping onto my bare shoulders, his dark brown eyes wide with surprise as he looked everywhere but at me.
He was looking at me now, though. And his eyes were everywhere. They trailed slowly down the slope of my neck, lingering at the small, jagged scar beneath my ear I got as a small child before moving on to the gentle curve of my shoulders. I wasn’t wearing anything particularly nice, just a thin T-shirt and an old pair of jeans—but his gaze was heated all the same. It made me feel dizzy and warm in a way I didn’t have words for.
I wanted to move closer to him, so I did, not bothering to stop and wonder if that was a good idea. But then a moment later he straightened, as if returning to himself, and then quickly stepped back and away from me. He stuffed his hands deep into the pockets of his trousers once again, staring down at his shiny wing-tipped shoes as though they were the most fascinating things in the world.
The moment was over. But somehow, it felt like something between us had changed. There was a sweet, electric anticipation in the air that hadn’t been there before. I wasn’t sure I had words for what it was. All I knew was that I wanted to feel it again. I wanted to feel him. The hard planes of his broad chest beneath my hands. His lips, his breath, hot and sweet against my neck.