Becoming His Muse, Part Three (2 page)

Put that passion in your prose.

The job of a good muse is to make sure the artist gets his work done. But his words have triggered a longing in me, so I add,

But save a little bit of that passion for me xxx.

I need you NOW. I don’t like being apart.

Creation requires sacrifice.

I hear my mother calling. “Ava? Are you coming down?”

I have to go. Duty calls.

What about your duty to me?

You are a writer. I am your muse. Go write. TTYL.

I stare at the screen for another sixty seconds but it’s sullenly silent and blank. I hope he’s following my advice. I toss my phone back in my purse, change out of my blouse into a snug fitting hoodie, swap jeans for yoga pants, put my hair in a pony tail, and dab on a bit of lip gloss. Freshening up to me means getting comfortable, which will undoubtedly disappoint my mother, but our neighbours, the Simmonds, have seen me in diapers, school uniforms, and sweats, so I know they won’t care. They’re practically like family and I feel no need to dress up for them. Especially Warren, whose socks never matched let alone the rest of the colors and patterns of his wardrobe. I’m home now and I want to relax. Even muses need a break.

The doorbell rings and my mom bustles toward the foyer. With her out of the kitchen, I put my third carrot stick back on the veggie plate, reach into the bowl of potato chips, and grab as many as my hand can hold. I methodically feed myself the deep fried saltiness as I listen to front door pleasantries exchanged. My dad actually gets off his backside to shake Mr Simmonds’ hand but it only takes them a few hearty, howya doin’s before they navigate their way back to the den and the din of the football game. My mom and Mrs Simmonds—Caroline—sashay arm and arm back to the kitchen, the official realm of the wives on Thanksgiving.

“Ava, you gorgeous thing!” says Caroline coming straight toward me and clapping both manicured hands on either sides of my cheeks. I hope I’ve licked any chip evidence from my lips. “Have you grown again?” she says releasing my cheeks and stepping back to appraise me,

“Not any taller,” says my mother uncorking a bottle of wine.

“Oh, she’s beautiful, Rita,” said Caroline to my mom. “You must be so proud.”

I really like Caroline, but she and my mom tend to refer to their kids as prize show dogs.

“Warren, she’s in here!” barks Caroline.

I drop back onto my stool and reach for another handful of chips, until my mother sees me. Gracefully, I tilt my wrist toward the carrot sticks.

“How’s school, darling? In the final stretch, aren’t you?” says Caroline to me. She’s always interested in my life, which I appreciate.

“It’s going great. Busy.”

“I don’t know what happens with art. Will you have exams? I can’t imagine they can really test you on that stuff.”

I shake my head. “I have to be in a big senior art show in the new year. That’ll be eighty percent of my grade.”

“An art show? With an opening and everything? Wow! Rita, can you imagine? You’ll have a real artist in the family.”

My mother just nods and hands her old friend a glass of red wine. The liquid flares like ruby fire as it passes in front of a candle. The color catches my eye; it’s a color of desire, of lust. I need that color in my painting of Jenny. Alizarin Crimson mixed with Antique Red, maybe Carmine? A touch of ultramarine mixed with black…

“Can we come?”

“Pardon?” I say, having momentarily forgotten what we’re talking about.

“To the show? Can you invite friends as well as family?”

“Oh sure. It’s mostly for students and faculty but it’s always open to the public, to make us feel more nervous, I’m sure. But it’s a long way to go.”

“Don’t be silly. I’ll be there,” says Caroline. “We’ll make a weekend of it, won’t we, Rita?” My mother hasn’t even asked me about the dates yet and here Caroline is already planning a weekend. “I watched you finger painting in diapers, Ava. I wouldn’t miss this show for the world.”

As her words conjure up an image of me in diapers, Warren walks in, or rather shuffles. I notice his feet first, and his matching socks. His hands are stuffed in his pockets and he seems awkwardly out of place, though he’s been in this kitchen hundreds of times.

“Hey, Ava,” he says. And then I notice his face, which is several inches further up from the ground since I last saw him and has developed several more angles.

“Wow, Warren. You’ve grown.” Oh man, did I say that out loud? I sound just like our mothers. “Uh, I mean. You look great.” I blush and fumble with my words.

“You, too,” he says casually as he leans down to give me a hug. He smells soapy and clean. His broad shoulders around me make me feel like a small doll. This boy-next-door who’s always felt so brotherly to me, like a younger brother in fact, is now making me feel as if I’m climbing up the first big hill of a roller coaster.

I step back, shove my hands into the kangaroo pouch of my hoodie, and think of Logan back at school writing, missing me. I miss him, too, but the world of school and the world of home suddenly seem like two different planets.

“Rita!” bellows my father. “Bring us some beers.”

As if a switch has been flicked my mother puts down her wine glass, smiles, and turns toward the fridge.

“Mrs. Nichols, let me,” says Warren, beating her to the fridge in two strides.

“Oh, how nice of you,” says my mother, beaming at him.

“The least I can do,” he says politely. “Thanks for having us over.”

I watch him grab the bottles and nestle them in a bucket my mother has filled with ice. He moves awkwardly, as if he still isn’t comfortable in his own skin, but what nice skin it is. And hair, and teeth, and smile. Gosh, this is boring old Warren Simmonds? I grab another handful of chips. I will not let my mother catch me gawking. But she sees my chip grab and as soon as Warren leaves with the beers she tucks the bowl into a cupboard, out of sight and out of reach.

“Why don’t you go in and watch the game?” says my mom.

I stare at her. I stopped watching football with my dad years ago, once I realized I didn’t want to be Daddy’s Girl anymore.

“At least keep Warren company,” says Caroline with a slight plead in her voice. “You know how he hates sports.” She whispers it like it’s a horrible secret. I guess around Thanksgiving it is. And I’m just getting the hint that my mom and Caroline want a bit of privacy to talk. That’s fine by me. If I pick a good seat in the den, maybe I can secretly study Warren’s mysterious transformation.

After watching a few downs, Warren leans over the gap between our chairs. He nearly knocks the lamp off the small table next to him.

“How’s the art world?“ he whispers.

“The college art world is fine. As for the real world, I know little of that. How’s business at MIT?”

“Hey,” barks my dad. “Keep it down. We can’t hear the announcer.”

I roll my eyes, knowing full well he can hear the announcer because the volume’s up so loud. What he means is that’s
all
he wants to hear. To our mothers we might be show dogs but to our fathers we are just props or set decoration, proof of progeny that further defines their success, but better seen and not heard.

Warren leans a little closer so he can whisper a little quieter. I like the way his arms slope over his knees and how he looks up sideways through his eyelashes as if we’re conspiring.

“I told some friends I’d meet them later. Want to come?”

Warren has friends? And he’s inviting me to tag along? The tables have definitely turned.

Not even three hours has passed since I’ve arrived home and I already need to get a breather. If Warren is providing it, who am I to complain?

“Sure, why not?”

“Really? You’ll come?” His surprised smile harks back to earlier days of nerdiness and I can tell he’s hardly aware of his recent transformation and of the potential power it holds over the opposite sex.

“Let me put on some jeans first,” I say. “Give me ten minutes.”

“Take your time,” he says, staring in confounded admiration—of me or himself I’m not quite sure.

I make an effort to dress casually chic this time, even spritz on a bit of vanilla perfume. As I grab my purse I feel a tiny vibration within the pocket. Looking at my phone I see that I’ve missed six texts from Logan. Oops. The last one reads,

You’re silence has forced me to start drinking. Consider yourself responsible for the outcome.

That text came through almost an hour ago. Who knows what shape he’s in by now.

I text back.

I’m here. Just got busy visiting with family. You should be writing rather than drinking. It’s better for your liver.

No reply. I frown at my phone for a few moments. Is he okay? Still no reply. Well, he’s a grown man and he needs this weekend to write. I shoulder my purse and head downstairs where Warren is waiting.

An hour and a beer or two later, Warren has filled me in on his school work and potential prospects after graduation and I’ve shared my college news with him (omitting anything to do with Logan because I can’t risk him saying anything to his mom that might get back to mine, or so I tell myself).

“I wish my cousin Tess could see you now,” I say, feeling my tongue moving rather thickly in my mouth.

“Really, why?”

“Well, you’re… You’re all growed up Mr. L. Warren Simmonds.” I hold up my beer bottle to toast this surprising and delicious fact and then I take a sip, but I have to tip the bottle
way
back because it’s almost empty and that was the last sip and I just can’t believe it. I wave to the bartender for another round but Warren’s still only halfway through his first and apparently I’m now on my third. What is wrong with me? Am I actually nervous with Warren? Well, he has seen me in diapers. And naked. I laugh out loud at the thought, and when I take my first sip of my third beer it seems I have little control over which thoughts stay thoughts and which become speech.

“What’s so funny?” says Warren watching me giggle.

“Oh, nothing, it’s just that you’ve seen my booty.” I snort-laugh and feel the beer attempt an escape out my nose.

Warren grins and blushes and then he finishes off his beer. Thankfully, the bartender has sent over two more and Warren is now onto his second. I try to slow down so he can catch up.

“I kind of forgot about that,” he admits. I think he’s going to make a flirty remark about needing an ‘update viewing’ but he doesn’t. I guess he’s too much a gentleman for that. Or maybe I haven’t rocked his world in quite the same way he’s rocked mine.

“‘Course, I’ve seen you naked, too.” I say, and I daringly add, “But you were
little
then.”

He gives me a sideways glance but does not take the bait.

“Were you surprised, Ava?”

“By what?”

He looks away for a second, as if embarrassed.

“You said Tess would be surprised to see me, but…” He looks into my eyes with a penetrating brown stare. “But were
you
.”

I’m momentarily lost in his wide pupils swimming in their chocolate pools and he seems so serious all of a sudden, like my answer is of utmost significance. But I don’t want to be serious. I want to be playful. Warren used to be my playmate, after all. But I owe him honesty at least.

“Yes.
Happily
surprised.” I offer up a sweet genuine smile and he looks relieved and more relaxed now.

“Good,” he says, as if we’ve just agreed on something, and it hits me that Warren has no clue how to flirt. He’s not used to his good looks yet. He’s happy to have my approval, which he’d been sorely lacking through middle and high school. I feel so bad all of a sudden. I did nothing to bolster his confidence.

He glances around the bar and then his eyes light up as he looks toward the door. I follow his gaze and see three people enter — two guys and a girl.

“Your friends?”

Warren’s waving now, answering my question with a gesture instead of a word.

“I’m so glad they get to meet you,” he says.

The guys are smiling as they approach our table. The girl not so much.

“Lou, Darryl, Devina, meet Ava.”

Warren seems oddly proud to introduce me but the girl, Devina, who looks half South Asian and very striking, does not look impressed. At least she’s civil, offering me a tight smile and a limp-wristed shake of her hand before she sits delicately on the chair left for her after the two guys have slipped out of their jackets and slouched onto their seats.

“So this is the girl-next-door?” says the one called Lou. He wears glasses and sports a goatee. He winks and nudges Warren who gives him a flushed warning glare.

“Our families have been friends since we were babies,” Warren says by way of explanation. Perhaps for Devina’s benefit?

“Yeah, they used to play in the garden naked as lambs,” says Darryl. “Over the years we’ve heard a lot about
you
, Ava.”

Warren shoots a worried glance at Devina who seems rather cool. Is there something between them? Warren and I hadn’t ventured into that kind of conversation. Not yet. And maybe I shouldn’t have made assumptions about him flirting with me without asking a few questions first. Just in case he’s got a thing with, Devina, I nip the romantic insinuations in the bud.

“We’ve known each other our whole lives. We’re practically brother and sister.”

Lou frowns and Darryl scrunches up his nose. Clearly, they’d been imagining a different kind of relationship, but Devina smiles and slips out of her jacket.

“What kind of beer are you drinking, Warren?” she says.

“I’ll get you one.” He hops up and heads to the bar.

“I’ll come,” says Devina, following him.

I’m left sitting across from Lou and Darryl who are both staring at me.

“So. Lou. Darryl. How are you?”

Neither answers right away. They just stare at me so I take another swig of beer, feeling awkward.

“It’s great to finally meet you,” says Lou finally.

I nod and smile. “Yeah, you too.”

Darryl shakes his head. “Warren probably never mentioned us.”