I'm Not in Love

Remi

When I get home,Dacia is waiting for me at the top of the stairs, leaning impatiently on the rolling barn door to my loft.

“So, who is he?” she asks as I struggle with the door’s tricky lock and slide the heavy panel to the side.

“Who is who?” I know exactly who she’s referring to, but I wouldn’t be me if I let on.

“Hello! The babe magnet you were escorting through the halls of the Clayton Arts Building today. I’d like to rock his world.” Dacia never blushes when she should.

“Babe magnet? I guess that makes me a babe.” She’s right—Tristan is a magnet. His beauty draws everyone in. “Tristan’s a life model for Drawing the Undraped Human Form.”

“Undraped? Cool.” She winks at me. “Are you dating him?” Dacia is slightly too interested in Tristan for my liking. “Hmm?”

“That is to be determined.”

“I see.” She nods as if she understands my dilemma—no propositioning the nude model per guidelines of professional protocol. “Is gorgeous Tristan even gay?”

I roll my eyes, impatient with her questions. “That is also TBD.”

Dacia grins and pokes my side with a pointy neon green fingernail. “Well, if he’s not into guys, Remi, do me a favor and send him my way.”

I refuse to honor her suggestion with a reply. “Are you finished interrogating me?”

“For now.” She tosses me a lazy grin and runs her fingers through her magenta bob. “What’s for dinner?”

As if invited, Dacia follows me into my loft. She never gives much thought to what I want, which has allowed a tentative friendship to form.

“Do come in,” I quip with my usual dose of sarcasm. I’d never actually kick her out, though. I’m the main source of her evening meals.

The Purchase Street loft is the first place that has felt like home since I lived in the Vermillion Place Penthouse a few streets north of here when I was a kid… with my parents. When that living situation ended so abruptly with their untimely passing, I was swiftly shipped off to my grandparents’ nearby estate in Connecticut. From there, I was shuffled from elite boarding schools to exclusive summer programs to college dormitories.

I achieved my first undergraduate degree in business at the elite Gunther University. And then, according to the agreement with my grandparents, I was allowed to pursue a BFA. I relocated to mandatory freshmen housing at LaCasse College of Visual Arts. As a sophomore, though, I left dormitory life behind. I was far too old (and jaded) for the “we’re finally free of Mom and Dad’s stupid rules” party scene that my younger LCC suitemates embraced so heartily. As I’d already turned twenty-one, I’d gained access to a significant part of the trust left to me by my parents, so I used a minor portion to buy the Purchase Street loft. A place where I could, at long last, be alone. Most of the time.

“Dinner? Who said anything about dinner?” I ask with a scowl, dropping my bag onto the charcoal velvet sectional arranged in the loft’s central space.

“Your famished downstairs neighbor did.” She heads to the kitchen area in the loft’s far corner. “Hey! You’ve got a frozen gourmet pizza. It’s veggie—that’ll work!” she calls.

“If you insist.”

“I do.”

My loft occupies the top level of an 1890s industrial building in a sought-after downtown Garner City neighborhood. It boasts floor-to-ceiling windows, rustic brick walls, concrete floors, and exposed beams and pipes, suspended from towering ceilings. As it’s a hard loft, there’s certain coldness to the space, which fits with my worldview. Home is a place to gather my thoughts and steel myself to necessary human interaction. The bonus is there’s plenty of space to work on creative projects. Except for the occasional booty call and my persistent downstairs neighbor’s visits, it’s not a place to bond with others.

There’s no heart to this home; it’s a fortress of sorts—towering, empty, and cold. Like me.

“I need to get out of these clothes.” After a day at art school, I’m covered in paint and clay and dust. Clean sweatpants call me.

“You do that. I’ll pour the wine and preheat the oven.”

“Make yourself at home, why don’t you?”

“Don’t worry, I will.”

My bedroom is more of a general area than an enclosed room, located against the tall brick wall at the far end of the loft, behind a corrugated metal slider that hangs from a wrought iron bracket. I have no need for a soundproof bedroom—privacy isn’t a concern. I live alone and have no plans to share my home with anyone… ever. Using additional metal panels, I’ve cordoned off several “rooms” that I use for workout space and storage, and several more I will one day turn into an office and a studio.

All the upgrades can wait until I’m ready to fulfill my grandparents’ compulsory plan for my future. Or until I can come up with a way to escape this fate. Until then, I live in a bare, unfinished environment that suits me well.

I strip off my jeans, grab a pair of sweatpants from one of the freestanding wardrobes, and pull them on. After exchanging my button down for a clean white T-shirt, I reemerge to find that Dacia has taken my sarcastic advice and made herself at home. She sits cross-legged on the sectional and sips red wine from a long-stemmed glass.

“Let’s see the drawings of Tristan.”

“You’re actually going to ogle sketches of the man?”

“You always show me your drawings. Why should tonight be any different?”

I drop down beside her and slide several sheets from my bag. “Well, go ahead then—feast your eyes.”

“Oh… oh, nice.”

“My technique?” I ask hopefully. In class this morning, I strived to capture the flow of Tristan’s body and the pinch of his muscles where they twisted, detailing the essence of action. Although I made no attempt to create a carbon copy of him, his exquisite beauty is obvious in my work.

“Of course—you know your technique is good. But his poses… Tristan’s very expressive.”

I nod because she’s right. I certainly have no complaints. “I think he based some of his positions on yoga poses. At least, he did later in the class with the longer poses.”

“He’s a smart model too. I wonder if he’ll pose for our sculpture class.”

“I… I very much hope so.” This is more honesty than I’d planned on offering. “It’s time to put the pizza in the oven.”