"No. I'm… I'll get comfortable."
"Great."
"There is one other thing."
Come back to my place. I want to make you come. Immediately.
"I was working with Professor Barba on a personal project," she says. "I don't expect you to take over, but if you could help me find assistance with someone else…"
"I'm happy to help."
"It's personal," she says.
"Would you prefer someone else?"
"No."
"I won't be offended, Opal. I promise."
"I don't know your artistic abilities yet."
"Do you want to test me?"
"No. Your lecture was good. And your… thoughts on hotel lobby art."
"Is the project pop-art inspired?"
"It's still taking shape."
I want to see it. Every sketch, every page, every image. I still want her, all of her. Before it was a bad idea. Now, it's completely out of the question.
"We were meeting in his office, but—"
"Wherever you're comfortable." I don't even believe myself. "The library."
She sticks out her tongue. "I hate libraries. They're too quiet. Especially the one here, with the weird floor and the glass panels."
Both the floor and the panels are there to make it harder for students to attempt suicide. For years, the school was notorious for its suicide rate. The rate wasn't significantly higher than the average university, but because the school was large, and the deaths fit the narrative of New York City as an unforgiving place, the stories made headlines.
Does she know my best friend died by suicide?
Does it hurt her too, losing this mentor she trusted?
I swallow hard. "My office hours—"
"Are on the syllabus, yeah. I have class all afternoon."
"Email me. We'll arrange a time."
"Are you sure?"
"Are you?"
She nods and forces a smile. "It was nice to meet you here, Professor Morrison."
"You too, Opal—"
"Opal Pierce." She bites her lip. "Yes, my brothers run Pierce Industries. I'm sure you're familiar, with your work at Paytron."
She's being modest. Pierce Industries isn't quite as famous as Google or Apple, but they're a household name.
"It's really not a big deal," she says.
"I understand." Technically, I co-founded Paytron, but it was all Raul.
"I looked you up when I got the email about class. I looked up all my professors."
My head tries to latch on to the logic—I'm not special—but my body refuses. My heartbeat picks up. My blood rushes south. "Anything interesting?"
"There's no art under your name."
"That's right."
"Do you have a secret pen name?"
"If I told you, it wouldn't be a very good secret."
"Fair." She smiles, catches herself flirting, forces her expression to something neutral. "I hope we can work well together. I really do want to learn." She must notice the double meaning, because she blushes. "I, uh, I'll see you soon. Wednesday, I guess. Have a good day, Professor Morrison."
"You too, Ms. Pierce."
She smiles, charmed by me using her last name, then she turns and steps out of the door.
For a few minutes, I stand, dumbstruck, unable to think of anything except her brightness. Then students for the next class file into the room and I push my other thoughts away.
I channel my late friend, introduce a new set of young adults to his work, return to his office for my mandatory office hours. Every week, after the two classes I teach, Monday and Wednesday.
Most working professionals teach evening classes. Students in the arts have a particularly difficult schedule—most of their courses aren't offered until five p.m.—but Raul asked for mornings, so he could skip mandatory meetings at work.
He even volunteered extra office hours.
At the time, I thought he was being his usual difficult self, objecting to the attempts at authority from our new CFO and COO.
Now, I wonder if he was running away. Testing a different path to the end of his life as the head of Paytron Saint.
Why didn't he tell me?
No, he did. In a million little ways. But I found an explanation for all of them. Stress. Burn out. Difficulties in his marriage.
It's so easy to see the signs now.
Was I oblivious? Or was he that good at hiding?
For two hours, I cycle between thinking of my late friend, answering student questions (mostly requests for extensions), and drawing whatever comes to mind.
When my hours officially end, I have a list of students with approved extra time for assignments, four pages of drawings of the city at night, and eight sketches of a pretty brunette in my bed and… elsewhere.
There aren't defining features, but it's obvious.
That's Opal.
All day, I try to adjust my focus. I eat lunch, I draw, I help Raul's replacement transition.
The only thing that clears my head is my workout. For an hour and a half, I swim. I swim until I can't take another stroke. I shower and dress and fix dinner and think of Opal.
She's there, in my emails, politely suggesting times and a place to meet. She can come to the Paytron building if that works for me. It's close to her brother's office, and she meets him there on Tuesdays. A routine of theirs.