CHAPTER4
Tristan
It sucks when I’m running late for work—tardiness is the ultimate in unprofessionalism. Sometimes, though, it’s unavoidable. I had to walk the boys to school because Tara left early to take Wendy to the allergist on the other side of the city, and since none of us have had enough sleep lately, we slept in and got off to a late start.
What it adds up to is that right now, I’m sprinting across the LaCasse College campus, so I’m no more than ten minutes late for class. I sincerely hope the life drawing students will appreciate the added dimension of sweat on my skin, because there’s no way around it.
By the time I push through the classroom door, the students are already either standing behind easels or seated on art chairs—gazing in boredom at the ceiling—and well past ready to begin. My attention is drawn to Remi, who stands by an easel, staring toward the door. His expression is of concern.
“Professor Santini, I… I apologize for being late,” I blurt, hesitating in the front of the classroom. “I had a family problem this morning.”
“May I suggest, then, that you waste not a minute more of our valuable time with vague excuses?” His voice is sharp.
Feeling as if I’ve been slapped, I wince. “Yes, sir.”
“Well, go ahead.” He nods at the screen. “Prepare yourself for class… and make it quick.”
I nearly knock over the folding screen in my hurry to yank off my clothes. When I open my bag, I realize that in my mad dash to get the boys out the door, I forgot to take my robe out of the dryer. I’m forced to wrap a towel around my waist—it’s that or strut out in front of the class stark naked. I slide my feet into my moccasins and pull in a deep breath, hoping to calm myself before I start to work. Then I step out from behind the screen to face the music.
“Better late than never—isn’t that what they say?” Professor Santini asks the class to lighten the dour mood in the room. The students chuckle politely. He refuses to look at me. It’s as if I’ve personally insulted him.
I shrug and let the towel fall to the floor. Then I kick it underneath the chaise lounge and cast my gaze toward the floor as I wait for him to inform the class of his plans. And once again, I feel more naked than I usually do… when I’m naked.
“Today, class, I’d like to try some experimental exercises that will help you recognize your drawing rhythm.” The professor walks past me as if I’m not here, stopping by the wall at the far side of the room. “Tristan, of course, is an exquisite subject. So much so that we may be tempted to try to copy him on the paper before us. But that is not your task. Your task is to capture the essence of his pose.”
I scan the classroom briefly to evaluate the mood of the students. They don’t appear overly put out by my tardiness, which is a relief. I allow my gaze to briefly linger on Remi. As he listens to the professor’s instructions, a tiny divot forms in the space between his eyebrows. Like he’s annoyed.
“This exercise is designed to release you from the unrealistic expectations that drive many artists to hyper-awareness of their every pen stroke.” Professor Santini snickers like a magician with an ace up his sleeve. “For the first series of poses, I would like you to capture Tristan’s essence without so much as glancing at your paper. You will study the model exclusively and commit what you see to paper, using only the simplest of lines. Focus on yourrhythm.”
“One minute?” I confirm.
“That’s what we discussed last week, is it not?” he huffs.
Nodding numbly, I set the timer. I part my legs and jut out a hip, and then bend enough to grasp my upper thighs. Loosening the muscles in one leg, I rest its weight on the ball of my foot. This physically nontaxing pose will allow me a moment to calm my frazzled nerves.
Ding.I reset the timer and drop to my knees. I lean back on one arm, curling the other arm around my head. Then I close my eyes. This is a pose that strains my muscles, and I can only hold it for a short period of time. I wait for the chime and move on.
When the series of gestures is complete, I’m distracted by thirst, a result of my long sprint from the bus station to the Clayton Arts Building. “Please excuse me for a moment while I get my water bottle from my bag.”
“What on earth are you waiting for, then? Go.” Professor Santini points toward the screen, and I stumble away. “For the next series of poses, class, I do not want you to lift your pen from your paper. And never stop moving. Do not waste your artistic energy on overthinking.”
I carry the bottle back to the center of the floor, guzzle half, and wipe my mouth with the back of my wrist.
“We don’t have all day, Tristan.” This brisk, impatient version of the professor has caught me off guard. I throw myself into another difficult pose, hoping it will distract him from his need to berate me. Five challenging poses later, my muscles feel the strain.
“Why don’t we take a very short break?” Professor Santini finally suggests. “We must make up for lost time.” He shoots me a fake grin.
Having no robe, I pick up the towel from the floor, fasten it around my waist, and suck down the rest of the water in my bottle. I’ll have to wait for the next break to use the restroom, since I’ll need time to throw my clothes on before I head down the hall. I perch on the edge of the chaise lounge, trying to relax my muscles.
“Hey, Tristan.” Remi approaches, shaking his head. “Santini certainly has it out for you this morning.”
I gaze up at him. He’s truly a handsome man, with gentle, even features that suggest a sweetness I don’t otherwise detect. “Professor Santini has a right to be pissed off. I was late.”
“And time is money…” Remi pulls his hair out of a black elastic band, only to refasten it. “It’s not as if he’s paying you with his money, though.”
“I need to carry out what I commit to.”
“You said that a family problem made you late. Is everything fine at home?”
I sigh. “I live with my sister and her kids. My niece has serious allergies and… well, it’s not really an excuse, but I had to get the boys to school this morning and so…” My voice trails away into silence, as I’m not one to let myself off the hook when I screw up.
“I think that’s a damn good reason for being a few minutes late.” Remi’s smile electrifies his dark eyes. For a second, I forget to breathe.
“I can’t let it happen again if I want to get more jobs at LaCasse College.”
“I could put in a good word for you… for a modeling job in sculpture class… if you want.” He glances away from me. “I’m on good terms with the professor.”
“That’d be awesome.” I find myself studying Remi’s shoulders beneath the button-down denim shirt. They’re broad—much more so than mine—and are toned but lean. It’s clear he spends time working out but not pumping iron. “You sculpt too?”
Eyes still downcast, his grin shifts until it’s adorably crooked. “Yeah, but not like I paint.”
Since he’s not paying attention to the direction of my gaze, I continue to study him. Remi’s waist is narrow, and his legs are long and lean. After a moment, though, my searching stare makes its way back to his face. Remi’s eyes are his most compelling feature. From a golden glimmer in their depths, I’m somehow certain he knows how harsh life can be. In that, maybe we’re the same.
“Tristan,” Professor Santini barks. “It’s time for five-minute poses.”
“I’d better get back to it.” I stand and stretch.
“Uh, I was thinking… you probably didn’t have time for a decent breakfast, rushing around this morning, as you were.”
I fold my arms in front of me and wait for more.
“So, anyway, I… uh, maybe after class, I could treat you to lunch at the dining hall.”
“Oh.” A dining hall lunch doesn’t qualify as a date, does it? It’s more of a courtesy. “I’m sure that would be okay.”
“Okay, then.”
“Yeah, okay.”
Note to self: “Okay” has been stricken from conversation in our non-lunch date at the dining hall.
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