The Muse Read online

  I shrug. “Don’t be. I haven’t spoken with him since Derrick’s funeral. He brought a date who happened to be fifteen years younger than him.” The uncertainty on Beckett’s face brings acidic words to my lips. “Oh, I’m sorry. He probably taught you at Stanford. Did you worship him like everyone else?”

  His lips thin. “Stop, Iris. For the love of God, stop pushing me away.”

  I glance behind him. “Where’s Francine? Aren’t you supposed to be having dinner?”

  My callous words have an effect opposite of the one I’d anticipated. He laughs, a light, bright sound that spreads cracks through my shell of indifference. Before I can make sense of his reaction, his warm hand cups my cold cheek. A thumb brushes my temple.

  “I’m sorry I said that,” he murmurs, smile softening. “I reacted out of anger and hurt. It took me a while to sort through why you said those awful things.”

  “Because I meant them?”

  He shakes his head. “You’re afraid of what’s happening between us.”

  “There is no us,” I say, but faintly.

  His eyes darken, fastening on my lips. “Tell me what I have to do for you to give me a chance.”

  A whirlwind of hope, fear, lust, and dread cycles through me. I step back until his hand falls, needing distance.

  Needing… I don’t fucking know.

  I tell him, “I can’t do this right now. I have so much work—I haven’t even started my short story.”

  “I’ll give you an extension.”

  “I don’t want special treatment!” I snap.

  “Your father just died,” he says gently. “It’s not special treatment.”

  Two students walk past us up the stairs. Hearing Beckett’s words, they cast me concerned glances. “I’m fine,” I say with a tight smile. “Everything’s fine. Move along.”

  Concern turns to annoyance, and they disappear inside.

  Beckett snorts. “Ah, Iris. You’re in a class of your own.”

  I pinch the bridge of my nose, squinting at him over my fingers. “What do you want from me? Seriously, tell me. I’m totally overwhelmed right now.”

  His eyes soften at my raw tone. “To be close to you. And so much more. But right now, all I really want is for you to tell me today wasn’t a mistake. That you don’t regret it.”

  Darkness shivers inside me, but it’s not the broken place this time. It’s a sweet, sensual awakening, a languorous stretch of feminine power.

  “I went for a walk so I could feel you in every step. Does that answer your question?”

  He stills, lower lip falling. A flush blooms high on his cheekbones. In a broken whisper, he asks, “Where on Earth did you come from?”

  Pleased beyond reasonable levels by his reaction, I smirk. “San Francisco.”

  “Thank you, San Francisco,” he breathes, then takes a step closer to me. Several more students walk past us, and he freezes. “Damnit.”

  I sigh. “That’s not going to change. You know that, right? Not for another year.”

  He nods, staring into the distance. “I do.” Gaze meeting mine, he adds softly, “I’m at a loss.”

  See me in secret. We’ll be careful.

  But aloud I say, “Maybe by next year, you’ll be divorced. And have different feelings about dating.”

  I don’t mean for the words to be so solemn and firm. But I don’t take them back, because they’re true. I don’t want shame and secrecy. Not even if it means I can have him.

  Beckett laughs softly, but the sadness of it squeezes my heart. “Straight to the point as usual, pet. Message received. And for what it’s worth, I’m proud of you.” He hesitates, expression smoothing to professional distance. “Please let me know if you need an extension on the assignment. I’ll take over the workshop tomorrow morning.” As I start to protest, he shakes his head. “I’m your boss, remember?”

  I nod, and he turns, walking lightly down the steps.

  No… Wait!

  I stand frozen until he’s gone.

  Over the next several weeks, I pour all of my focus into school. Study. Write. Grade. Teach. Write. Every spare minute I have, I fill with networking potential job opportunities for next year, meeting with the two other faculty members on my Thesis Committee, and generally avoiding Beckett like the plague.

  It’s not easy, as I have to see him at minimum twice weekly. But so far, we’ve maintained emotional and physical distance. He doesn’t tease me, touch me, or push my buttons anymore. For my part, I avoid eye contact as much as possible and stay at least five feet away from him at all times. No tempting heat or mouthwatering scent to override my survival methods.

  Late evening is the only time I really struggle. Those hours when I’m not tired enough to sleep but too braindead to enjoy any form of social life. Not calling, texting, or emailing Beckett is a daily battle. Finally, when I can’t take it anymore, I fish out an unused box of stationary from my closet.

  I write him letters. Never to be sent or read, but I don’t need a psychology degree to know they’re not really for him. Pouring out my thoughts is cathartic. The best kind of therapy.

  I hold nothing back, detailing events and thoughts from childhood all the way to the present day. My promise to Derrick. His obsession with hockey and my sweatshirt talisman. His inexplicable love of sauerkraut. The night of the accident, my injuries and my rehabilitation. The first time a boyfriend in college saw my scars and made excuses to leave, then never called me again. My stepsisters, who are both great, loving people, but who I’m afraid to care about.

  The new novel I’ve started drafting. My favorite of his books, my favorite poem from his published collection. My favorite poem of my father’s, about the night he met my mother. My favorite songs, foods, and movies. My passion for dance, that still lives in me despite my knee injury. My obsession with historical romance novels. My undying love for early British punk music.

  On and on and on.

  In tens of letters I’ll never send, I tell him everything that makes me tick.

  12. canto

  The afternoon of Halloween, Claire storms into the living room and delivers an ultimatum: “Either you dress up and come out with me or I’m firing you as my best friend.”

  Curled into a corner of the couch with a cup of tea and a book, I don’t bother looking up. “I’m not putting on a slutty witch costume and getting drunk in public. Halloween is the stupidest adult holiday ever.”

  She gasps in exaggerated horror. “You did not just say that!”

  I roll my eyes and take a sip of my tea. “Besides, three’s a crowd. I’m not interested in chatting up random dudes while you and Griffen make out in a corner.”

  She snatches the book out of my hands and throws it down on the coffee table.

  “What the hell, Claire!”

  “Exactly!” she snaps, pointing a finger at me. “What the hell! You’ve been a zombie for three weeks. You won’t talk about Beckett or your dad, and every time I invite you out, you tell me you have to study. You’ve lost weight, you’re not sleeping, and if I have to listen to one more record by The Damned, I’m going to burn the house down!”

  I blink, unsure whether to laugh or cry at her tirade. I settle on, “I didn’t know you felt that way.”

  Sighing gustily, she sinks onto the couch. “Please, please come out tonight. It’s our last college Halloween. We’re not going to a stupid house party, anyway.”

  I immediately start shaking my head. “No way—”

  “Yes,” she cuts me off, “we’re going to the faculty party. But don’t worry, Beckett won’t be there. Griffen made sure to ask him after class on Wednesday. He said something along the lines of, ‘not a chance in hell.’ Pretty sure that means you’re in the clear.”

  I groan. “You guys conspired against me.”

  She nods, unaffected. “We care about you. I hate seeing you this way, and I miss my best friend. Come. Please.”

  “Last college Halloween,” I murmur.

&
nbsp; She grins, triumphant. “Yes. And I won’t make you wear my slutty witch costume.”

  “But I don’t have—”

  “Yes, you do.”

  She flies off the couch and grabs a garment bag from the hall closet. Unzipping it with a flourish, she displays the costume inside.

  I look at it for a long moment, then swing my incredulously gaze to her. “Seriously? A fairy? Why do you hate me?”

  Claire just laughs. “Not just any fairy,” she says proudly. “The Fairy Queen.”

  The cosmetic gold glitter Claire applied across my eyelids and temples is starting to mess with my vision, giving sparkling haloes to bodies and inanimate objects alike. Or it might be the compounding effects of the green punch—suspiciously strong for a faculty gathering. I’d almost refused it, but Claire had stood with me for ten minutes while I watched people ladling and drinking with no ill effects.

  Once my anxiety subsided, she commandeered the entire punch bowl, not allowing anyone near as she poured our drinks. For herself, she went the standard single-cup route, but for me, she filled a thermos so I wouldn’t have to face the bowl again.

  Now, feeling warm and loose from the punch and dreamy from my glittery vision, I tell her, “You’re the greatest wing-woman in the world, Claire-bear.”

  She giggles, looking up at me from her cozy seat beside Griffen. They’re dressed as Odysseus and Penelope of Homer’s Odyssey. Anywhere else, they’d be pegged as nothing more specific than Greek gods. But this is, after all, a party of academics.

  I’ve already had four different people quote Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream to me.

  “Did you see Dr. Alcott?” whispers Griffen, making an unsubtle gesture of his head.

  I nod, biting my lips against laughter as I look across the room. Dr. Alcott is the Head of the Philosophy Department and also hosting the party at his home. He’s dressed in an extravagant owl costume—representing the companion of Minerva, Roman goddess of wisdom. I’ll admit, I was stumped when I saw him. Until someone explained it to me, I thought he was a sports-team mascot.

  Presently, his narrow, flushed face is visible, the headpiece lifted as he speaks with a man dressed in all black who could be anything from Dracula to a space singularity. And though I can’t see the man’s face, his presence tickles my senses. There’s something familiar about his short blond hair, and how he’s standing… I blink hard and the world momentarily morphs into a disco ball.

  “Who are you staring at?” asks Claire excitedly, leaning forward to follow my gaze. She immediately gasps. “Holy shit, is that Brad?”

  Griffen leans forward. “Brad Fowler? Oh yeah, it’s definitely him.” He glances at Claire. “Should I be worried that you look so thrilled?”

  She elbows him, jerking her head toward me. I start to roll my eyes, but decide against it as the room shifts a little.

  Claire grins evilly at me. “Iris, go say hi.”

  “Nope. No.”

  “Weren’t you two good friends?” asks Griffen in confusion. I nod hesitantly, and before I can stop him, he shouts, “Fowler! Over here!”

  Brad glances in our direction. When he sees Griffen, he waves and excuses himself from Alcott. As he walks toward us, I try to melt into the space between a side table and the wall and even consider ducking behind a nearby plant.

  Halfway across the room, Brad’s gaze lands on me. A huge smile lights his face. I’m so stunned that he isn’t running in the opposite direction, all I can do is stare as he walks quickly to me and pulls me into a hug.

  “Iris, it’s so good to see you,” he says happily. “How are you?”

  “Good,” I squeak.

  Taking me by the shoulders, his gaze flows to my feet and back. “You look amazing. Either Titania or maybe one of the Celtic goddesses. Cerridwen? Brigid?”

  I shrug. “Just a woodland fairy.”

  He laughs, glancing at Claire. “You made her come, didn’t you?” She winks.

  Brad slides his arm around my shoulders, tucking me into his side in a way that’s so familiar it’s like putting on my favorite pajamas. Looking down at me, he says, “You’re probably the only person in the room who can guess who I am tonight.”

  I take in the white dress shirt under the black coat, perfectly creased ascot, and finally, the tiny spectacles in his breast pocket.

  Laughing, I say, “W.B. Yeats.”

  His smile softens. “Nothing’s changed,” he says, then gives me a quick, hot kiss on my forehead. As I’m reeling from the contact, I happen to look across the room toward the front door.

  A man stands in the entryway staring at me. Green eyes fix on Brad’s arm around my shoulders, then flicker to my forehead where I was just kissed. And finally, he looks into my eyes.

  Pain.

  Longing.

  Anger.

  Resignation.

  Defeat.

  Brad is wrong—everything has changed.

  “Excuse me,” I gasp as I bolt after Beckett.

  Behind me, Claire calls, “Iris? Where are you going?”

  “Bathroom!” I blurt.

  When I reach the entryway, Beckett is gone. Where is he? I spin wildly but can’t see him anywhere. With just enough wits left not to yell his name, I open the front door and run down the walkway. It’s freezing and late, the moon a sinister sliver in the black sky. The sidewalks in both directions are empty.

  No!

  Out of habit, I reach for my phone in my pocket, but I’m wearing what amounts to tights and a fucking tutu. My small purse is inside with Claire.

  Teeth chattering, I whisper, “Goddamnit, James, where did you go?”

  “You ran right past me, pet.”

  With a strangled gasp, I whirl back toward the house. He’s sitting alone on a white porch swing, elbows braced on his knees. There’s limited light, but I can feel the weight of gaze on me.

  I stand frozen, having not thought this far ahead.

  Softly, he murmurs, “‘Yes, fancy, come, my fairy love, these throbbing temples softly kiss; and bend my lonely couch above, and bring me rest, and bring me bliss.’”

  I’m not certain, but I think it’s Emily Brontë. When I don’t move, or say anything, he sighs.

  “Go back inside, Iris. It’s glacial out here.”

  The dam inside me breaks. I have to tell him. Tell him. “Brad’s just a friend. He lives in Oregon. I haven’t seen him since he graduated in spring.”

  After a long pause, he says mildly, “You’re pissed.”

  “No… what? I’m not mad. I just didn't want you to think… or, um, misunderstand.”

  His smile gleams in the shadows. “Pissed as in drunk. Plastered. Sloshed.”

  “Ohh,” I say, nodding. “British drunk.”

  His low chuckle is music to my ears. My body finally back in my command, I walk toward him, wrapping arms around my torso to conserve body heat. I make it to the edge of the porch and stop. Even sloshed and aching for him, I remember my five-feet rule.

  “Griffen said you weren’t coming.”

  He shrugs. “I wasn’t. Then the last trick-or-treater came and went, and it was just me and a bowl of snickers. Rufus didn’t even want to play.”

  I snort. “Your dog’s name is Rufus?”

  His brows lift in affront. “It’s a perfectly respectable name.”

  I cough over laughter. “Yes, definitely. It’s a great name.”

  Beckett shifts forward, hands clenching on his knees. He whispers fiercely, “You’re standing there shivering, and all I want in the world is to wrap you in blankets and serve you tea. And I can’t even offer you my coat, because any second someone is going to walk outside. So please, if you care at all for my honor, go inside where it’s warm.”

  My heart thumps madly in my chest. “I don’t want to,” I say, possessed by the sweet darkness only he coaxes free. “Blankets and tea, huh?”

  He makes a soft noise and jerks to his feet. “A thousand blankets. Any tea you want. I’ll ev
en let you defile it with sugar.”

  Adrenaline races through me, making me faintly dizzy. Searching his face, I say tremulously, “I’m not safe right now.”

  For some unknown reason, he knows exactly what I’m telling him—asking him.

  “Even if you beg me to, I won’t kiss you. Not tonight. You’re safe with me, love.”

  Love.

  Inexplicably, tears fill my eyes. “I’d really like blankets and tea. With you.”

  He steals toward me, fast and fluid. In seconds, he’s whipped off his leather jacket and swung it around my shoulders. His scent and heat surround me. I sigh in relief.

  Taking my fingers in his, he guides me down the walkway, across the sidewalk, and into the street. When we make it to the opposite sidewalk, he stops. I look up at him, registering his frown.

  “What about the party?” he asks urgently. “This is crazy. Your purse, your friends…”

  “I’ll text Claire from your phone.” When his brows jerk up, I smile. “Did you really think I wouldn’t tell my best friend?”

  He sighs through his teeth. “I suppose not. But people must have seen you leave—”

  I shake my head roughly. “You’re asking for a lot of concentration from an inebriated woman, Beckett. Let me think… Since no one came after me, I’m betting Claire saw you, saw me follow you, and is covering for me. So I’ll text her with a cover story. I, uh, got my period and didn’t want to wing it as Bloody Fairy, so I borrowed a phone to call my stepsister, who came and got me.”

  He barks a laugh. “God Almighty.”

  “Nope, just Aunt Flo,” I quip, then slap my free hand to my mouth. Beckett’s expression is a mix of hilarity and shock, and I can tell he’s trying hard not laugh at me. “I’m not actually—that is… Ah, fuck. I’m drunk.”

  A grin teases his lips. “Since we’re on the topic, it’s forty degrees and I have no coat. My balls are the size of raisins, so I don’t care what story you tell, just that we get in the car.”

  I screw up my face. “We’re gross.”

  He laughs and tugs me into motion again. Luckily, his car’s not far. Within seconds of starting the engine, heat flows over the popsicles that used to be my legs.