More Than Water (22 page)

She then leaves our company with James at her side. Foster remains still, his gaze following after them.

“Ignore her,” Graham says to Foster, coming forth once James and Fiona are out of sight. “She’s had way too much to drink, and we all know her motives for…well, what happened between you two, weren’t really the right ones.”

“She’s a vulture,” Lilliana adds. “An opportunist. She’s nothing but a—”

Bitch?
That’s the first word that comes to my mind, but what do I know?

“No,” Foster says, giving Lilliana a stern look, shaking his head. “It’s fine.”

“Forget about it,” Graham continues as convincingly as possible. “Let’s get a drink.”

Foster removes the glasses from his face, mindlessly wiping the lenses clean with the bottom of his shirt. “Maybe it’s best that I go.”

“Because of Fiona? No, dude. Stay. The night is still young.”

“Nah.” He returns the frames to his face. “It’s for the best.” Foster peers at me. “Are you ready to go?”

“Sure.” I nod my head, understanding that his need to leave is not to be questioned. Pivoting toward Graham, I say, “Thank you so much for having me. It was great.”

“Anytime, EJ,” Graham replies. “Come by anytime. And you two drive safe.”

“We will,” Foster answers for both of us. “I’ll see you in class in a few days.”

The men nod to one another, and then Foster turns on his heel, creating a path among the remaining guests with me following close behind. We wordlessly make our way through the house and out the front door to where Foster’s car is parked at the curb. I let myself into the passenger side as he rounds the hood and then takes a seat behind the wheel before starting the ignition.

It’s a silent drive along the vacant streets on the early morning of this New Year’s Day. Foster, completely in his own mind and understandably so, keeps his head forward and on the road ahead, never even sparing me a sideways glance.

I don’t ask any questions. I don’t say a word. There’s a time to be quiet, and this is one of them because all sound is just white noise when inner thoughts are the only language one can comprehend.

When he pulls up to the front of my apartment building with the car running, not finding a place to park, it’s clear that we will not be spending the rest of the evening together.

I unfasten my seat belt, gather my purse, and grab the handle to exit.

“EJ?” Foster says as I’m about to open the door. “I’m sorry about tonight.”

“Don’t worry about it. I had a nice time, and your friends are great.” I release my hold on the lever and settle back into my seat. “Are you okay though? I kind of got the hint that something was going on between you and Fiona.”

“It was that obvious?” he asks rhetorically.

“That you two used to go out? Yeah, it’s pretty clear. She wasn’t too thrilled about the way things ended, was she?”

“It was just bad timing.” He stares ahead, out the windshield. “Me and relationships don’t mix. She’s proof of that. I was very…unavailable for her.”

“Well, you’re really busy,” I remind him, thinking of all his extracurricular activities and studies. “I still don’t know how you manage to do it all.”

He laughs softly to himself. “My busyness is a more recent thing. I took up all those activities, including the library job, so I wouldn’t have time to think about
her
anymore.”

“Fiona?”

Foster shuts his lids. “No. Sasha, my ex.”

I wait for him to say something more. The hum of the running car is the only sound filling the silence. Leaning my head against the warm fabric seat, I observe his features while the stillness echoes. They aren’t tortured or even overly hurt but muted, like the name Sasha somehow resonates a form of emotions vetted so deep into his being that a scar remains.

“How long ago did you two break up?” I finally ask, realizing he might need a little nudging.

Men aren’t known for spilling their guts. It’s like their penises block some forms of speech.

“A little more than a year.” He smiles to himself, contemplating. “You don’t want to hear about this.”

“I don’t mind.” I adjust my positioning so that I’m facing him a little better. “You listen to my crap all the time. You can certainly tell me some of yours. And if you’d like, we could slam our exes together, calling them nasty names while eating ice cream.”

He chuckles. “And paint each other’s toenails?”

“Yes, and watch really crappy romance movies.”

“Sounds like one hell of an evening.”

“Or we could just get hammered and blame it on the New Year.”

“True. There’s always that.”

I palm his forearm. “So, tell me about Sasha, the bitch. I need to know more before I hunt her down and peel back her fingernails, one by one.”

He gives me a you-are-crazy-and-I-really-hope-you’re-kidding look. “That’s really sweet of you.”

“And completely out of character. So, you’d better start talking before my sugary goodness wears off.”

A smile, a genuine one that actually shows some semblance of humor, spreads across his face. “Okay. We were high school sweethearts, and…it sounds pathetic even to say it.”

“Go on,” I encourage, hoping he gathers some momentum.

“I was supposed to go to Duke, but she didn’t get in. So, I came here with her.”

“Wait, hold the phone.” I sit up straighter, intrigued. “You gave up Duke to come here with her? Duke for this place?”

“Yeah. It wasn’t the best decision, but back then, I would have done anything for her.”

“Wow, Foster, you had it bad.”

“No kidding.” He shakes his head. “It was really kind of pathetic.”

“So, what happened?”

“About a year and a half ago, she went to England to study abroad and never came back. She met someone else, and that was that. I came to find out that she had been cheating on me for six months before she decided to tell me about him.”

I blink—a lot. “That’s awful. She really is a bitch.”

“You’re not the first one to tell me that.”

“That’s probably because it’s the truth. What she did was not cool at all.”

“I guess it happens.” He taps the steering wheel a few times with his fingertips. “I didn’t take it very well either. I even flew to England to try to convince her to come back, but she still stayed.”

“Geez,” I mutter. “I don’t even know what to say.”

“There isn’t much to say.”

“Do you still talk to her?”

“No. I talk to her brother often though. Our families are close. Parker was my roommate, but he moved out last year when he graduated.”

“Oh.” I bite my lip, registering and connecting the dots between his ex and his old roommate. “How does Fiona play into all of this?”

“Fiona was a mistake.” He shakes his head, shutting his lids. “After all of that went down with Sasha, I was a mess, but everyone encouraged me to try to get back out there.

“Fiona’s part of the science department, and we’ve all known each other for some time. She showed interest, and one thing led to another. Before I knew it, we were a couple. But I wasn’t ready. She wanted more in the relationship, and when I couldn’t give it to her, she tried even harder. Eventually, it got ugly, and I said a lot of not-so-nice things, so she would get the hint. It didn’t end well. Between what I went through with Sasha and then with Fiona in the mix, our group all had a rough time. People took sides, and there was a lot of yelling. We’re all friends again now, but it wasn’t like that until recently. I was happy when Fiona moved on with James. It’s a better fit anyhow, but apparently, she still harbors some resentment.”

“Yeah, I caught on to that.”

He positions his torso toward me. “So, there you have it. That’s me. I’m
that
guy—the one who had his heart broken and now sucks when it comes to relationships. What do you girls call it? Walls? Emotionally broken? Oh, wait, Fiona called it emotionally unavailable.”

I giggle. “Something like that. And you don’t suck when it comes to girls or relationships, Fozzie. You just had a bad string of luck with them.” I cover his hand resting on his thigh with my own. “When you’re ready, the right person will come along.”

“Now, you sound like you’re reciting a line from a movie.”

“Maybe it is a line, but it’s one I truly believe in.”

The first week back to school has gone as expected—full of syllabi, reading lists, assignments, meetings, and picking up various supplies. Not to mention, it’s been filled with boring speeches and lectures from professors with a side of homework. I’ve already gone through the chore of checking in with my advisor in regard to my thesis and confirming that I’m on track to graduate come spring. Everything is set and in motion.

Walking into my art theory class, I’m overcome with a sense of pride. This is an upper-level class, usually only taken by fine art majors, and I worked my way here by following an aggressive track since my freshman year. It’s not typical for an art minor and not unheard of either, but it’s something I aspired to accomplish.

I spy Wolfgang seated at the back table, going through his phone while waiting for the professor to arrive. Meandering through the maze of workspaces and students, I take a seat next to him, setting my bag at my feet.

“Well, well, well,” Wolfgang says, shoving his phone into his pocket. “I was starting to wonder if you were alive.”

“What are you talking about?” I remove the beanie hat from my head and shake out my recently cinnamon-tinted locks. “I texted you last night, confirming that we were in the same class.”

“Yeah, after I haven’t heard from you for almost two weeks.”

“It was Christmas break.”

“So? A guy needs to know if his muse is breathing or not.”

“Now, I’m your muse?” I shrug out of my jacket.

“I might have been inspired by you in the past. It’s some of my best work.”

“Of course it is. Nothing but phenomenal things comes from me. You are lucky to have a goddess like me in your presence.”

“And there she is.” He reaches toward his feet, bringing up a cardboard carrier with two coffee drinks. Pulling the smaller cup from the pairing, he places it in front of me and says, “Small nonfat latte.”

My hands circle around the drink. “You really are the best.”

“That’s what they all say.”

A tall man with lemon hair falling to his shoulders enters the room with false panache, banging his shin on the small garbage can near the door. All the students grow silent as the infamous Professor Turner takes his place at the front of the room, muttering a few obscenities under his breath.

The man is a genius in his own right, having consulted on and been commissioned for numerous sculptures on campus, in the city, and worldwide. He’s known for his eccentric attitude and lifestyle full of women, men, and lively parties. One thing he’s also known for is pushing students to their breaking points, actually causing a few in the past to have episodes of madness. The man finds boundaries and wants to break them.

He frightens, intrigues, and inspires me, all at once. I hope to learn a great deal while in his classroom.

“Good afternoon, people,” Professor Turner addresses the class, shuffling through his bag and pulling out a stack of papers. He hands them to a student sitting at the table nearest him and then begins to pace the room as a copy of the syllabus is divvied up to each person.

Pausing at the front of the room, he shoves his hands in his front denim pockets and then leers at each and every one of us. He then speaks, “For those of you who don’t know, I’m Professor Turner. You can see my credentials and accolades as well as how you can reach me on the paper before you. If you’re in this class, congratulations. This is your moment of glory as an artist. Savor it because this is nothing like the real world where you will learn what it feels like to starve and have people spit on your work and your spirit. This is the pretty before the ugly. Don’t get used to it.”

He steps between the tables, making his way down the middle of the classroom toward the back of the room. “In this class, my job is not only to make you reach beyond your comfort zones, but to also teach you how to rise from rejection and objection. If you don’t think you can handle being called a peon and a moron on a daily basis, I suggest you leave now.”

The professor pivots on his heel, and every student follows his path as he slowly proceeds to the front of the class.

“I will be both objective and subjective in my critiques, and I promise, I won’t be nice. If you need flowers and unicorns, the preschool is down the street. Pack your teddy bears for the trip.”

Turning to the group of attentive students, he spreads his arms wide with an all-knowing schmuckish grin playing across his face. “So, are you in, or are you out?”

The classroom becomes silent, and I swear, dust motes can be heard as they float around us.

“Well?” Professor Turner probes everyone. “You had better answer. Without conviction, your work is nothing.”

“In,” a few students mutter near the center of the room.

“That was pathetic.”

“In!” the entire class, myself included, says with confidence.

He shakes his head, pacing toward the window. “You all need to work on your decision-making skills—pronto. Growing a few balls would help, too. This is going to be a long quarter. The world is becoming soft.”