The Girl in the Painting

“And what is your sister’s name?”

“Indy Davis.” She verifies what, deep down, I already know.

I wonder if she knows that just two days ago, her sister tracked me down at the gallery. And if Indy told her, what did she say?

Was she as affected as I was?

Is she still thinking about it like I am?

Hope bubbles inside of my chest, and I decide there is only one way to find out.

“Tomorrow night,” I say without hesitation. “I can fit in an interview over dinner. But do me a favor and make sure your questions are worth my time, yeah?”

“Holy shit,” she mutters more to herself than me. “I can do tomorrow.”

“There’s just one condition,” I add with a smile. If I’m doing another fucking interview, I’m going to make sure Lily Davis isn’t the only one who’s going to get something out of it.

I tell her where to be and what time to be there, and then I tell her what I want. And I end the call before she can say an opposing word.

A dick move? Yes. But the reward could be well worth the consequences.

Lucy stares up at me from her desk, her eyes squinted into tiny little lines.

I smile at her for the first time today.

“Good news, Luce. You’re un-fired.”

She laughs. “That’s good. Because I wasn’t leaving anyway.”

And then I go to work.

My muse is alive and well, and my color palette might as well be preordained.

“Hmm,” I mutter to myself as I survey my selection of paints. “I’m thinking indigo.”

Indy

The lunch bell rings, and just as the last eighth-grader leaves my classroom, my phone buzzes inside my desk.

Matt: How ya doing, baby? Hope your day is going good.

My day? Well, it leaves a lot to be desired.

Firstly, every single one of my morning classes was filled with boisterous, antsy kids, hopped up on Pixy-Stix speed and stir-crazy from the cold weather. I swear, if it’s been one day without recess, it may as well have been a million.

And secondly, the name Ansel Bray has been following me around all day.

It started this morning while I drank coffee in my kitchen, and it hasn’t let up since.

With Matt gone, I forwent CNN and put on E! News. All was normal as they talked about the Kardashians, but then, while I was distracted with getting my Eggos out of the toaster, they segued and ended up showing a picture of Ansel from five years ago, out with some model at a restaurant in Manhattan.

Two blocks into my walk to the subway station, I stopped at Pauly’s Newsstand to buy a pack of gum and came face-to-face with him again. On the front page of the freaking New York Post.

I kept my head down for the rest of the commute, but when I got to school, I let my guard down. Big mistake. Two steps into the faculty lounge and Sherry from the math department, propped unavoidably against the counter in front of the donuts, was reading said newspaper.

He is everywhere, all around me, and that doesn’t even include my own ridiculous thoughts.

Needless to say, I now know I never should’ve sought him out.

Coming face-to-face with Ansel Bray didn’t do anything but raise more questions, more intrigue, more of these fucking thoughts, and feelings I don’t understand.

Guilt churns in my gut when I realize that it was my boyfriend’s text that launched my current Ansel-driven crazy plane.

God, I’m the worst, and I don’t even understand why.

With a mental slap, I pour my focus back into the man on the other end of my phone.

Me: It’s going okay. How’s your trip?

Matt: So great that I just got word a large bank in Spain wants us to add a software consultation with them to our itinerary. It would extend my trip for another week or so, which sucks, but it’s almost too good to pass up.

I know Matt well enough to understand there’s no maybe about it. His three-week trip has just been extended.

Me: Sounds like everything is coming up roses, then.

Matt: It is, but I miss you. You wouldn’t by any chance want to take a week off from work to come visit me, would you? ;) I’ve heard Paris is lovely this time of year…

Me: LOL. Pretty sure Paris in February is just like New York in February. COLD. And you know I can’t take time off last minute in the middle of the school year.

Matt: I know, but I figured it wouldn’t hurt to ask. Well, I’m going to head out and grab some dinner with Tom and Conrad. Another FaceTime call before you’re headed to work tomorrow morning?

Me: Sounds like a plan.

I set my phone back in my desk drawer and glance at the clock.

Thank God. Lunchtime.

I head for the faculty lounge as covertly as I can without employing an army crawl, and I snag my lunch from the fridge. I’m just about to make my getaway when Mary calls toward me, “You’re not going to eat with us today, sweetie?”