The Muse Page 14

  For me.

  In the front row.

  Chin up.

  As I skirt around the crowd, I hear my name several times, but I’m too focused on trying not to trip to acknowledge anyone with more than distracted smiles. At the front, I cross the empty space between a single, vacant armchair and a table set up with a variety of hardcovers, including his most recent thriller that was released several months ago.

  I barely make it to the seat beside Claire before my knees buckle.

  She puts her head on my shoulder. “You look amazing. I knew you’d come. He’ll be so glad to see you. You’re my hero. Have I told you how gorgeous you look? That sweater is the perfect color—”

  “Okay, okay,” I say, laughing in spite of my nervousness. “I’m here. You won, my manipulative little fiend. I mean friend.”

  She giggles and checks her watch. “He’s late.”

  Griffen leans forward to give me a meaningful look. “Why am I not surprised?”

  I laugh, shaking my head. “If I had a dollar for every time Beckett was late to class—”

  The rest of my sentence is lost in sudden applause. I turn forward just as James emerges from adjacent stacks and crosses to the armchair with a little wave. His denim-clad legs pass not three feet from mine. Over an untucked dress shirt, he’s wearing a hunter green sweater that I know makes his eyes electric—if I had the nerve to look at his face.

  Instead, I stare at his scuffed brown boots as he sits. Watch his hands as he uncaps a bottled water sitting on the small table beside his chair.

  The feverish applause continues. It occurs to me that I’m not clapping, but I can’t seem to make my arms move. Only when Claire elbows me do I snap out of it and bring my numb hands together.

  “Alright, that’s enough,” comes his humored, achingly familiar voice.

  Someone whistles loudly and James laughs. The sound pours into my ears and down my body, lifting goosebumps. I’m seconds from bolting when Claire’s hand clamps on my bouncing knee.

  Eventually the applause fades. A bookstore employee walks into the space before James’ chair.

  “On behalf of Bluebird Books, I want to thank everyone for this incredible turnout. Consider yourselves the lucky ones—we’re at capacity and no one else is getting in!” She waits for a round of cheers to subside before speaking again.

  “As you all know, tonight our guest is the legendary James Beckett. Acclaimed poet, novelist, and Director of the Creative Writing program at our very own U-Dub. The agenda this evening is flexible as per the author’s request. He’ll do a brief reading from Indigo, his newest thriller, then we’ll, uh…”

  James leans forward. “See how the night goes.”

  Laughter from the crowd.

  Terrified and hopeful, I will my gaze to his face. But he’s not looking at me, instead busying himself with several hardcovers on the display table. I take the time to absorb his features, to catalogue the evidence of years.

  His hair is shorter on the sides but still a mess on top. He’s clean shaven. Elegant and piratical. Exactly as I remember him, as though no time at all has passed.

  Releasing a breath, I slump back in my chair.

  “Looks the same, huh?” whispers Claire, and I nod.

  The bookstore employee disappears and slowly, quiet descends on the gathering. James settles back in the chair, idly flipping pages until he finds the passage he wants. Bookmarking it with a finger, he looks up.

  I look down.

  “Thanks for coming, although I’m guessing most of you are my students. For your information, attendance this evening will not be counted as extra credit, a concept I firmly believe should be abolished from all centers of higher learning.”

  As laughter and groans sound, I glance around me. Sure enough, most people in the crowd are in their early twenties, faces bright and fresh.

  “And what’s this? Do my eyes deceive me?”

  Light, teasing tone. I wonder if anyone else can hear the undercurrent of true surprise.

  My gaze snaps to him. To startled green eyes aimed directly at me. My heartbeat thunders, breathing going shallow. I give him shaky smile, unable to look away, unable to keep the emotion from my face.

  God, I’ve missed you.

  James clears his throat and breaks eye contact. “Friends, we have among us a legend in her own right.” A graceful hand extends toward me. “Iris Eliot, everyone.”

  I don’t hear the applause, don’t feel Claire’s shoulder nudging mine. All I see is the casual affection that was in his eyes when he looked at me. Not desire. Not need. Just the look of someone staring at the past with no ill feelings. Someone who’s made peace and moved on.

  I lift my hand in a little wave to the appreciative crowd. Force a smile onto my face. Grip the hardcover in my lap like it’s a life preserver.

  All while my heart pounds, and withers, and turns to ash.

  22. genre

  “On her hip was a scar. Old and faded, smooth like a pebble worn by water, and so close to her healthy skin tone that I didn’t at first notice it. It wasn’t until she shifted onto her side that firelight danced there, teasing a sheen from the spot.

  “I traced the small line with my fingertip, feeling her body tense, then relax. I wouldn’t ask where it came from. She would tell me in time. For now, the gift of her brave nakedness was enough.

  “My touch, though lingering, only skimmed the surface of her dreams. She lay still and hard and smooth before me, a chrysalises awaiting transformation. Soon, she would break free, and I would revel in witnessing her metamorphosis.”

  James closes the book, setting it on the small table with his water as the crowd applauds. He’s just finished the third and final passage from Indigo. I haven’t read it, and now I’m not sure I want to.

  Did he read that on purpose?

  Of course he did.

  But I don’t know whether it was meant to wound or heal. Perhaps both.

  “All right, then,” he says gravely. “I’m yours for the next hour and a half. Ask whatever you want, but do try to be original.”

  Hands shoot up all around the room.

  “You there, red shirt.”

  “Hi, Mr. Beckett. Who’s your favorite author?”

  I wince; it’s a question writer’s loathe. Once you reveal your most-admired peers, oftentimes your works are weighed against theirs for the length of your career.

  “Myself, of course.”

  Clever man, I acknowledge privately as the crowd laughs.

  “How about you with the red lips. I’m indulging in a theme, clearly.”

  A young female voice asks, “Hi, professor. I’m wondering if you’ll ever publish another book of poetry?”

  “Fancy you should ask. There’s one in the works as we speak. It’s slated for release next year. Ah, how about you with the questionable piercing in your nose. You’ve got a red scarf, at least.”

  The man laughs. “Thanks. Do you get your inspiration from people or events in your life, or do you just think it all up?”

  “All of the above,” replies James. “You might find yourself in one of my books one day. I’m not likely to forget that ornament on your face anytime soon. Ah, Griffen Banks, it’s good to see you. Question?”

  “Is it true that you almost didn’t publish Footprints of a Poet, the biography on Richard Eliot?”

  I stiffen, looking up to see James’ smother a frown. He clears his throat. “It’s true that my publisher wasn’t happy with certain elements of the book, yes. But I’m a stubborn bloke, and they eventually came around.”

  Before James can pick someone else, Griffen asks a followup question. “Why weren’t they happy with it?”

  Green eyes flicker to me. “Writing biographies is tricky business, and sometimes the truth isn’t black and white.”

  When he calls for the next question, I release the breath I’d been holding. Leaning toward Claire, I hiss, “What the fuck was that?”

  She looks at me
guiltily. “Just something we thought you should know.”

  “God save me from meddling friends,” I whisper back.

  She winks.

  “Ms. Eliot,” says a carrying voice, “am I boring you?”

  Claire squeaks in surprise, while Griffen barks a laugh. By some miracle of inner fortitude, I don’t blush as I meet James’ laughing eyes.

  “I’m just waiting for the juicy stuff.”

  The crowd titters; someone whistles.

  Lips twitching, James leans forward to brace elbows on his knees. A lock of hair falls across his forehead, begging me to brush it away.

  “Like what?” he asks.

  I’m spared a fumbling response when a woman shouts from the back: “Is it true you’re getting married again?”

  In the resulting cacophony, I feel the blood drain from my head. The smoldering ashes in my chest flare, then darken.

  “Are you offering to be my bride?” asks James, skillfully dodging the question.

  More whistles. Several yelled proposals and a few brazen propositions. And an empty cavity where my heart used to be.

  If not for Claire’s ironclad grip on my hand, I would have run out the second the event was over. Instead, I find myself in line to get an autograph I don’t want.

  Unable to escape without embarrassing myself, I decide I’ll donate the book. I’ve already read it six times, and I can always buy another copy.

  When it’s my turn, James doesn’t look up, merely opening the cover and asking who he should make it out to.

  “Just a signature is fine, thanks.”

  His head whips up, his gaze piercing as he catalogues my features with the same concentration as the first time we met. Only now he, too, is marking time. I don’t know what he sees, but whatever it is brings a softness to his expression.

  “It’s lovely to see you, Iris.”

  “You, too.” I shift nervously, aware of the line pressing at my back. “Really, just an autograph is fine.”

  He watches me a moment longer, then nods and bends to the book. When he offers it back to me, our fingers touch. Need and helplessness spike through me. The words I miss you bead on my lips. His eyes meet mine, questioning and a little guarded.

  “Thanks,” I choke out, and drag Claire away from the table.

  “That was awkward,” she mutters.

  “No thanks to you,” I mutter back.

  We find Griffen waiting near the front door, where he helps Claire into her coat. “Do you want to come grab some late dinner with us, short-stuff?”

  I shake my head. “Thanks, but I’m going home to bed. Jetlagged.”

  Claire kisses my cheek. “I’m proud of you. You’re the bravest woman I know.”

  I muster a laugh. The gift of her brave nakedness… The words sweep through my mind, igniting memory and loss. Blinking hard against a sting in my eyes, I tell my friends goodnight and watch them walk outside.

  With a pause to tuck my book under my coat, I follow. The temperature has dropped further and within ten feet, my knee begins to ache. A block later, I’m limping.

  Gritting my teeth, I push forward. Just like I’ve always done. Keep swinging. I arm myself with thoughts of my warm house, ibuprofen, a hot bath, and my bed.

  One foot in front of the other.

  “Iris, wait!”

  I stop too fast and almost trip, catching myself at the last second on a mailbox. By the time I turn around, James is standing before me.

  “Jesus,” he pants, “I thought you were going to fall.”

  The new, older, more experienced me says, “I don’t need you to catch me anymore, James.”

  He frowns. “Let me walk you home.”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Iris—”

  “Really, I’m fine.”

  Silence descends and stretches. He begins to shiver in his sweater.

  I wave a hand in the direction of the bookstore. “You’re not done signing, Mr. Famous.”

  His eyes find mine. “That’s it, then? We’re strangers?”

  Words clash on my tongue, intelligible and base. No. Home. Want you. Miss you. I’m sorry. So, so sorry. Are you really engaged? Please say no.

  After another pregnant silence, he sighs, breath descending in a misty cloud.

  “We can’t be friends, can we?” he asks softly.

  I swallow hard. “I don’t think so.”

  A final time, his gaze flies over my face. “Goodbye, Iris.”

  I watch him walk away until his figure turns a corner, then reach under my coat for the book he signed. Opening it in the light of a nearby streetlamp, I read his slanted handwriting.

  Little Muse,

  I am, as always, your servant.

  J.S.B.

  Astoundingly, I make it home before falling apart.

  23. hubris

  After bawling my eyes out and sleeping eleven hours straight, I wake up with newfound conviction.

  It’s time to let go of James Beckett.

  Easier said than done, of course, but I begin the process by retrieving a shoebox from the attic. Inside are the letters I wrote him and never sent, as well as the stack of letters from my father. The latter, I put back in the box.

  I spend the morning reading with a box of tissues handy. When I finish, I throw them in the trash. Ten minutes later I retrieve them. Then I trash them again. After repeating the cycle another few times, I finally call Claire. She comes over, listens to me rant and rave, and grabs the letters from the trashcan.

  “Hell no are these getting dumped. You’re famous. I might need them someday.”

  She stuffs them in her purse, fierce expression daring me to object. I don’t. I’m just relieved to have them gone.

  The bulk of the next few days are spent doing homeowner-ey things like stocking my pantry and fridge, mopping the floors, doing laundry, and decorating walls with various paintings and photos that I never found time to hang.

  By Saturday afternoon, I’m restless. I have plans to meet Claire and Griffen for dinner this evening, but I can’t spend one more hour pretending I’m too busy cleaning to write.

  Hoping for inspiration, I pack a thermos of coffee and my journal and pens and head to Bluebird Books. Inside the warm, bustling store, the tables and furniture are back where they normally are. No traces of Thursday’s event remain save the display table devoted to Beckett’s works.

  In one of the side rooms, I’m lucky enough to spy an empty armchair. The alcove holds two, and in the other sits a student with headphones on and a laptop on their knees, a stack of reference books at their feet. Perfect.

  I take off my coat and toe out of my rain boots, then sit crosslegged in the chair. Diluted sunshine floats through the window at my back, wreathing my shoulders. With a sigh, I settle back and close my eyes.

  Fingers on paper. Dust and ink. Whispered voices, a few louder ones. The muted ting ting of a cash register. Clacking of computer keys as the student writes.

  The sounds and scents are a writer’s lullaby, coaxing me to sleep.

  “Book tours are exhausting, aren’t they?”

  My eyes snap open at the familiar voice. Mind muddled by the unexpected nap, I lift my head and look around blearily. The window behind me shows a dark sky, and the student has been replaced by sexy British man.

  “Hello, Iris.”

  “Shit,” I reply, sitting up and rubbing my face roughly.

  His lips tilt sardonically. “I’ve been called worse things, I’m sure.”

  Still struggling for clarity, I blurt, “Am I dreaming?”

  “Do you dream of me often?”

  This time, there’s no controlling my blush. “No,” I lie, scowling. “How long have you been sitting there?”

  “Long enough to become reacquainted with your snoring.”

  My mouth drops. “I don’t snore!”

  He winks. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell a soul.”

  Groaning, I rummage in my coat for my cell phone. It isn�
�t there, so I grab my messenger bag from the floor.

  “What time is it? What are you even doing here?”

  “Late for a date? And I’ll have you know I’m a frequent visitor here.” He holds up a familiar black journal, then nods to the one still in my lap. “I think we had the same idea.”

  My fingers close on my phone. I check the time and curse, then send Claire a text to let her know I’m going to be late to dinner.

  “A date?” asks James.

  “I heard you the first time, and like the first time, I’m ignoring you.”

  Chuckling, he watches me stuff my journal into my bag. When I stand, he stands with me. We’re close enough that I can smell his cologne, which triggers a powerful wave of sensory memory.

  My heart dusts itself off and kicks hard. Lifting my chin, I force myself to meet his eyes.

  “Don’t you have a girlfriend to get home to?”

  His smile turns sharp. “We don’t live together.”

  I smother a flinch. “Well, either way, you need to stop looking at me like that.”

  “Like what?”

  I wave a hand in his direction. “You know, like that.”

  He takes a step forward, his eyes never leaving mine. The warmth of his body radiates onto my skin. I’m frozen in place as he bends his head to whisper in my ear.

  “I’m still a prick, little muse. And I still want to fuck you silly.”

  I reel backward, both in surprise and shameful arousal. James grabs the lapels of my coat before I tumble into a cabinet full of books.

  “And besides,” he says lightly, “Jessica and I have an agreement.”

  “An agreement?” I echo. “What the hell does that mean?”

  He shrugs a shoulder. “We’re not exclusive. And definitely not getting married.”

  Slowly, anger outshines my desire. “Are you serious right now? You’re propositioning me while in a relationship with another woman?”

  “An open relationship,” he corrects. “And yes, I suppose I am. You’re even more stunning than I remember. I’d be an idiot not to at least make an attempt.”

  Disgusted and no longer the least bit aroused, I yank away from him. “Who are you and what have you done with James?”