I'm Not in Love

Despite his wry question, when he glances up and our gazes meet, his expression isn’t one of ridicule. Though still wary, it reflects sharp intellect and genuine curiosity. And to my relief, there’s no dawning recognition—I doubt he’s put two and two together regarding my once-famous, if sadly tragic, identity.

“My work in watercolor isn’t bad.” Look at me, feigning humility. “And my life drawing is competent, as well.”

“I’d like to see some examples of your life drawing, if you wouldn’t mind.” Another quick glance—too fleeting to analyze. “I’m always looking for pieces to add to my model’s portfolio.”

“When this series is over, you could drop by my loft near the Purchase Street Station and check out my etchings… You know, the drawings I do of you.” I grin sheepishly, which is so not me. Check out my etchings? Is that the best you can do, Remi? “We could take a look at them over, say, a bottle of wine… or two.”

As we proceed down the hall, Tristan veers widely from my side, and if my peripheral vision has it right, he shrugs. Recognizing his discomfort, I admit to my impatience. This is a rare miscalculation—I’m stellar in the meet cute department: Senior year artist sets his romantic sights on the new student in life drawing class only to discover he is today’s nude model.

Chance encounters don’t get more fucking adorable than that.

Tristan clears his throat, allows the duffel bag’s strap to slide down his arm, and then swings it to his other shoulder. “Uh, yeah… maybe. Or you could show me your drawings at the end of the series. I… I could check them out in the classroom… say, next Friday after class.”

“Of course. That would work too.” I’m pretty sure I just got denied, which only raises the stakes. “The building’s exit is right down these stairs.” I sigh in exasperation, having failed in my effort to entrap Tristan in my web of love.

Make that web of lust.Love isn’t among my expectations or desires.

As we descend the stairs, my lips twist into a classic Remi-esque smirk. Because Wednesday is a new day—another opportunity to work my magic on my latest distractingly beautiful target.

We step outside into the shimmering, early autumn sunshine. The leaves on the trees that dot the courtyard are just starting to turn to the brilliant colors that pull so many artists outdoors in the fall, palettes in hand. In my subsequent glimpse of Tristan, who is busy admiring the perfect day, direct sunlight unveils a new facet of his beauty. Not to be dramatic—Grandmother particularly detests theatrics—but his hazel eyes have morphed into translucent jade gemstones.

“Your eyes—they’re dazzling,” I utter, proving that I’m entirely off my game with this young man. Must I place all my cards face up on the table?

Tristan looks at me, and though his eyes are molten, his gaze has grown dark. He appears ashamed, as if he knows exactly how seductive his beauty is, and for this he blames himself. “Th-they change, is all—you know, the color.” He is truly sorry for rendering me defenseless with his matchless allure. “It’s just because of the light.”

“Yes, I know that.” With these clipped words, I turn on the heel of my costly Chelsea boot and saunter away from him across the courtyard. For a reason I’d never be willing to admit, I cannot remain in his staggering presence for a moment longer.

“See you Wednesday, Remi,” he calls to my retreating form.