The Muse Page 19

  “If you’re going to be upset with anyone, it should be with me.”

  “I’m not upset,” I tell her, opening my eyes. “I’m more confused than anything.”

  “Understandable, baby. I’m sorry you’re going through this.” She reaches out for my hand and I slip my fingers into hers. “Is there anything else you want to know?”

  Did you have an affair?

  I shake my head. “Nope.”

  33. polemic

  Exactly one week after the article in the New Yorker, I get the news that my publisher isn’t dropping me. For the millionth time, I say a prayer for gratitude that Rachel found me a liberal house to do business with. One who apparently has a firm, supportive stance on victim’s rights. Furthermore, since I didn’t write or endorse the article, in their eyes my professional reputation is unsullied.

  Too bad not everyone agrees.

  The P.O. Box listed for contact on my website is newly flooded with mail. Much of it is supportive and congratulatory, some of it hard-to-read commiseration from other victims of rape. But there’s also a renewed influx of hate-mail.

  After the third disgusting letter, I ask Kim to take over my formerly enjoyable task of personally collecting and reading correspondence.

  Just over three weeks have passed since I last saw or spoke to James. And finally, after a Sunday morning in which I do nothing but miss him, I grow a pair of Modern Woman Balls and use the phone.

  “Hello, Iris.”

  My heart jumps to my throat, cutting off my ability to speak.

  “By your silence, I assume you still want to throttle me.”

  I choke down racing pulse. “No.”

  “No?”

  “I don’t want to throttle you, at least not because of the article.”

  “Hmm. Did you read it?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you don’t hate me?”

  “No.”

  “Then why do you want to throttle me, pet?” A smile comes through the words. “Dare I assume it’s because I haven’t called?”

  “Why haven’t you?” I blurt.

  He pauses; when I hear a familiar creak, I realize he must be in his office on campus. “The truth? I was scared shitless you’d tell me off and never speak to me again.”

  I imagine his face frowning, his eyes soft with worry. I think of the countless times he’s challenged me, enraged me, made me a better writer. A better woman.

  “I’ve never taken you for a coward, James.”

  He sucks in a breath. “Iris?”

  “Are you still seeing Jessica?”

  He chuckles. “No. Not since the night of your jealous outburst.”

  I grin in spite of myself. “What are you doing tonight?”

  “I’ll pick you up at seven.”

  Checkmate.

  At quarter till seven, I step outside to wait for James. I’ve been showered, dressed, and ready for two hours, and I’m so nervous my armpits feel damp despite a fresh layer of antiperspirant.

  Everything about this moment feels significant. Despite our past sexual history, we’ve never been on an actual date. Our initial attraction to each other always sat in conflict to his role as my professor. Already on volatile ground, our relationship had imploded at the first hint of conflict.

  Granted, our conflicts had been of the extreme variety.

  But he’s not my professor anymore, and I’m not his slightly awed TA and student. He’s my professional peer. And more importantly, I no longer feel less talented, less mature, less capable than him. I know full well that he never made me feel that way—if anything, he insisted the opposite was true. I also know that my fears played a large role in our demise.

  “Butterfly, butterfly,” I chant under my breath. “You’re a beautiful-effing-butterfly.”

  The affirmation alleviates some of my emotional jitters, softening jagged edges with humor. When I see his car turning the corner nearest my house, though, I almost throw up.

  He pulls up to the curb outside my house and rolls down the passenger window. “Don’t even think about running inside right now. I’ll break down that door and throw you in the trunk if necessary.”

  Shocked laughter bursts out of me. This man is seriously too smart for his own good.

  His teasing smile pulls me toward him as surely as a rope. Within a minute, I’m inside the car and buckling my seatbelt. I’m grateful to see that he’s wearing jeans, and even more grateful I’d followed instinct and not worn a dress.

  “Nervous, eh, pet?”

  I roll my eyes. “Don’t rub it in.”

  He chuckles and puts the car in drive, then pulls away from the curb. “If it helps at all, I’m nervous, too. But more in a what-are-the-chances-I’m-getting-laid-tonight sort of way.”

  I groan-laugh. “Still such a prick.”

  “Undoubtedly,” he agrees, “but you don’t look green anymore. I suppose that makes me a brilliant prick.”

  I smile, turning my head to see where we’re going. He’s not driving toward the bustling streets of Capitol Hill or in the direction of downtown, but east into an older, more affluent neighborhood.

  Excitement brings me upright. “Are you taking me where I think you are?”

  He glances at me with a soft smile. “I thought there might be someone you’d like to see.” When I nod happily, he laughs. “He’ll be very glad to see you, too.”

  Before long, he pulls the car into a short driveway before a modest gate. Rolling down his window, he punches a series of numbers on a keypad.

  I gape at what lies beyond the gate. Huge trees create a picturesque frame for the stately home, grey with white trim and navy front door. Unlike the newer construction of his prior home, this one looks like it’s seen a century or so, and aged more gracefully than any of us can hope for ourselves.

  “Are you shitting me right now?”

  He drives through the gate and into a carport nestled against the side of the house. “Unlike other things, it’s smaller than it looks.”

  I slap his shoulder for the bad joke, then hasten out of the car, beating him to the side door in my anticipation.

  He laughs. “It’s just a house.”

  “Whatever. I have a thing for old houses. Just let me geek out, okay?” Something heavy thumps against the other side of the door. “Rufus!”

  He barks, then whines.

  Without further ado, James unlocks the door. Although I take a step forward, I don’t actually make it into the house. Rufus jumps faster than James can grab for him. Eighty pounds of muscle and fur slam into me at the same time a slobbery tongue finds my neck.

  After stumbling back a few steps, I regain my footing. Rufus continues licking my neck and face as I rub my hands vigorously over his sides.

  “Oh, that’s a good boy. Yes, you are. The best boy. I knew you loved me more than your daddy. I missed you too, buddy.”

  Standing with one hand braced on the doorframe, James laughs until tears leak from his eyes.

  34. subtext

  Rufus won’t leave my side as James gives me a tour of the three-bedroom home. The interior has been beautifully renovated into a modern writer’s retreat. Serene and inviting, the space reeks of James’ singular presence.

  It’s no effort to imagine him inspired here; nor is it hard to see his inspiration manifested. The restored wood floors, elegant grey walls, and crisp white molding provide a stunning backdrop for bold paintings and eclectic flotsam he’s collected over the years.

  I hadn’t realized how barren his Wallingford home had been, thinking he preferred an uber-minimalist approach. When I mention the thought aloud, he chuckles knowingly.

  “I’m actually a bit of a packrat. The majority of my things were in storage for my first year here.”

  I arch a brow. “Weren’t sure U-Dub would stick?”

  He shrugs, turning to open a door at the end of a hallway. “I wasn’t sure about a lot of things back then. I thought you might like to see this room in parti
cular.”

  As I walk into the shadowed interior, he flips a wall switch.

  “I’m dead and this is heaven,” I breathe.

  A library.

  The walls to either side of me are covered in floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, nearly every shelf full. Directly ahead of me is his desk, set inside a spacious alcove and facing a large bay window. No curtains mar the view outside; though I can’t see much, I have the impression of lush greenery.

  “This is what sold it for me.”

  “Damn right it did.”

  James smiles and watches me browse the nearest shelves.

  “Are you hungry, pet?”

  “A little, yeah.” Rufus’ tail starts thumping. I stroke his head, laughing as I look up at James. “Honestly, I can’t believe he remembered me.”

  James tugs a hand through his hair, expression sheepish. “I might of, uh, found a t-shirt you left at my old place. It’s since become Rufus’ favorite blankie.”

  My eyes widen. “Rufus sleeps with one of my t-shirts?” His lips twitch as he nods. “But it’s been three years! You had to have washed it since then, right?”

  I’m rewarded by a faint flush on his cheekbones. “You’re not going to let me out of this one, are you?” he murmurs.

  “Nope. Not even a little bit. Spill.”

  He looks at the ceiling and mumbles, “I might have purchased a bottle of your perfume.”

  A warm, weightless feeling expands inside my heart. “James Beckett, you bought my perfume to spray on Rufus’ t-shirt blankie so he wouldn’t forget me?”

  He winces. “When you say it like that, it sounds rather pervy, doesn’t it?”

  “No,” I say softly. “It sounds hopelessly romantic.”

  His gaze lowers to my face. “What can I say, I’m a poet.” And though the words are flippant, the look in his eyes is anything but.

  Heat dances in my chest and belly, sinking lower and intensifying. My expression causes him to close the distance between us in two long strides.

  “I’m going to kiss you now, Iris.”

  He doesn’t wait for a reply—not that one is required. There’s nothing in the world I want more in this instant than his mouth on mine.

  The touch of his fingers on my face is featherlight, trailing across my jaw and up cheeks, and finally sinking into my hair. With a gentle tug, he draws me forward until my aching breasts meet his chest.

  His eyes, dark with desire, meet mine. “I’ve waited lifetimes for this.”

  “Me, too,” I whisper.

  He kisses me then, softly and sweetly. A delicate mingling of our breaths. We savor. We tease. His tongue flicks against my lip and I shiver, a moan fluttering in my throat.

  More. More. More.

  A shove from behind rocks me forward, smashing my lip against James’ teeth. Sharp pain shatters my pleasure.

  “Ow, fuck.” Stumbling back, I prod at my throbbing upper lip.

  “Rufus, heel!” admonishes James. His concerned gaze swings to me. “Are you all right? Do you need ice? Are you bleeding?”

  I shake my head, fighting a smile. “I’m okay.”

  Rufus whines in uncertainty, his tail thumping and dark eyes inquisitive on my face. My pain forgotten, I drop to my knees and open my arms to accept a joyful, slobbery doggie hug.

  Visible over Rufus’ shoulder, James smiles and shakes his head. “I’ve created a monster, haven’t I?”

  I give Rufus a final squeeze before releasing him. “I like my monster, thank you very much.”

  Chuckling, James reaches for my hand. “Come on, let’s get some food.”

  We walk to the kitchen, its counters bare and glistening. “You need to learn how to cook, Beckett.”

  “Why bother? I’ll just buy you some lessons.”

  Leaving my side, he rummages in a drawer and pulls out several restaurant menus. He eventually notices my silence and glances over his shoulder with a grin.

  “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten your line?”

  I’m blank for a moment, then recall comes in a flash. “Sod off, you misogynistic prick!”

  He nods approvingly. “Thai or Pizza?”

  Two hours later, I sink onto the living room couch with my arms cradled protectively over my stomach.

  Lips pinched to contain laughter, James settles beside me. “Are you all right?”

  I groan for the third time.

  His smile fades as he studies my face. “You don’t look well, pet.”

  “I think I’m dying,” I moan. “Death by pizza.”

  His lips twitch, but the concern doesn’t leave his eyes. Gently, he places the back of his hand on my forehead. I watch his expression veer from worry to alarm.

  “Be right back.”

  My eyes fall closed as his weight lifts from the couch. Minutes or hours later, he tugs open my mouth and tucks a thermometer under my tongue.

  “Ughh,” I whine.

  After a little beep, the thermometer retracts. “Uh oh, you’ve a nice little temp.”

  “What is it?”

  “101.”

  “Shit.” I struggle to sit up but the room spins wildly. “I think I’m going to—”

  That’s all I get out. Besides pizza.

  Lots and lots of pizza.

  When the contents of my stomach lining join the horror-show already on the coffee table, James picks me up and carries me upstairs.

  “Puked on you,” I mumble, too numb to feel much besides mild annoyance.

  His chest vibrates as he chuckles. “I thought I was in a remake of the The Exorcist for a minute there.”

  Humiliation spikes through my mental fog. “Oh God. Kill me now.”

  He carries me across a shadowed room into a bathroom. “Not a chance. But you do need a bath, and cool water will help your fever.”

  My head falls listlessly to his chest. “So sorry.”

  “None of that now,” he says softly.

  He sets me down on the lip of a massive tub and crouches before me, putting his hands right on my puke-spattered knees.

  “Look at me, love.”

  Still in control of my eyeballs, at least, I look up at him miserably.

  “There’s no one on earth I’d rather be puked on than you.”

  Despite my pervasive ickiness, I manage a snort. “You can take me home. Don’t want to get you sick.”

  James gives me a look of astonishment. “Are you nuts? Pass up the opportunity to have you at my mercy? Not a chance.”

  He gives me a kiss on the forehead and moves to turn on the faucets in the tub. Leaning against the tiled wall beside me, I decide that if this is being at James Beckett’s mercy, I’m 100% on board.

  35. surrealism

  “Let me get this straight. You puked on him, then he bathed you, clothed you, and babied you for a day and a half, even calling in sick to work so he could hand-feed you soup and take your temperature every hour?”

  “Um, yes.”

  Claire screeches into the phone, “Why are you ignoring his calls, you dummy?”

  “Because!” With a grunt of aggravation, I flop onto my couch. “Claire, I don’t know how to do this.”

  Something in my voice softens her outrage. “Honey, I know it’s scary. You’ve never tackled a relationship-ready man before. But you’re also the bravest woman I know. It’s obvious Beckett is nuts about you. He sprayed his dog’s toy with your perfume, for fuck’s sake!”

  Back to outrage.

  “It was my t-shirt,” I mumble.

  “Exactly!”

  “But I puked on him! Bits of cheese and pepperoni all over his lap! His coffee table! His rug! Bathroom! Sheets!”

  “And he loved it!” she hollers back. “Iris, seriously, don’t make me get on a plane. I will haul you to his house and throw you naked into his front yard.”

  I frown. “Geez, Claire. That’s a little extreme.”

  “Yeah,” she agrees in a normal tone. “What can I say, I felt inspired. Besides, I don’t have
any more letters to send him.”

  “Bitch,” I say tiredly.

  “Whatever, you forgave me because it was awesome.” She pauses. “What are you really afraid of? He knows almost as much about you as I do and he’s not running.”

  I stare out my living room window at the steady rain. “I don’t really know,” I murmur. “It’s kind of this amorphous feeling of dread, like any second the other shoe is going to drop. I’m scared.”

  “Can I give you my professional two-cents?” she asks hesitantly.

  “Yeah.”

  “Beckett’s a poet and a writer. He calls you his muse. Does that remind you of anyone?”

  I close my eyes. “My parents.”

  She hums in agreement. “I think you need to find out the truth about what happened between them. You need to talk to your mom.”

  The feeling of dread inside me grows, triggering goosebumps along my arms. “I don’t want to,” I whisper.

  She sighs. “I know, honey, but you have to, or you’re never going to be able to go all-in with Beckett. Or anyone else, for that matter. Regardless of what your mom says, you’ll have to make a decision. But at least you’ll be making one with all the facts.”

  “You’re right.” I sigh. “I think some part of me has always known that was the issue. I’ll go see my mom next weekend.”

  “What about Beckett? And don’t say you can’t face him because of puke. Griffen took a shit with the bathroom door open the other day. This isn’t the minor leagues of relationships anymore, when we pretended people didn’t fart. We’re in the majors now.”

  I laugh in spite of myself. “Ignoring that gross fact, did you really just use a baseball analogy?”

  “Ugh, I know. You wouldn’t believe how crazy Texans are about sports. It’s rubbing off on me.” A door opens and closes. “Gotta go, my client’s here. Love you, Iris.”

  “Love you, too.”

  I lower my phone to my lap. Seconds later it buzzes with a new text message. From James.

  Open your goddamn door

  “Iris!” shouts James from the other side of the wood. “I know you’re in there. I swear on the Queen of England I’ll break this door down if you don’t open it!”