I'm Not in Love

CHAPTER23

Tristan

I’m ready for this…

I have no choice but to be ready. I signed up for an evening class—Child Growth and Development—at Garner City Community College for next semester. Between the cut in pay for working at the preschool on Tuesdays and Thursdays, as is my new agreement—I only make minimum wage at Kid Castle—and financing my night class, I need to save every penny I make. I can’t afford to tell Jillian Stitt that I’m not interested in twelve hours of modeling work in her Human Series Sculpture class just because the guy I used to date is a student.

I plod dutifully across the LCC campus. Like a horse wearing blinders, my gaze doesn’t stray from the path before me. When I’m safely wrapped in my role as a life model, I know how to emotionally isolate myself. But here and now, I’m vulnerable to an unpredictable environment. And I refuse to break down in Remi’s presence, so I stare straight in front of me.

I’m in no condition to bump into my ex in the courtyard. Last week, I lost the guy I’d fallen for, and my ego still smarts from the rejection. But worse, I lost a measure of trust in myself. I had no idea I’d become so dependent on Remi for emotional support. And for—however ridiculous this may sound—something as basic as fun.

Since the kids came along, I’ve set aside my desire for good times in favor of my need to be responsible. I saw it as a choice—either work my ass off to support Tara and the kids or live a footloose lifestyle that’s all about me. There was no middle ground. Never having had a dependable parent, all I wanted was for the kids to feel secure. For years, I stayed focused and did a pretty good job of letting the kids know their lives were stable.

Somehow, without my explicit agreement, Remi slipped laughter and adventure into my responsible lifestyle. With him, I sampled new foods and drank my fair share of red wine, but the best part was that we enjoyed the kids together. I learned something from Remi: I don’t have to give up on myself to take good care of them.

I’m back to being largely the same guy I was before I met Remi, though thanks to what I learned about myself, my goals have expanded. Providing a stable life for the kids is my primary duty, but Tara now has a job with decent pay and benefits, so I’m free to focus more on what I want. I’ve pulled my career goals off the back burner. I will allow no distractions.

“Wait up, Tris!”

Unwilling to risk possible eye contact with Remi, I refuse to turn around. But I stop walking long enough for Dacia to catch up to me. “Hi, Dacia.”

“You’re modeling for my sculpting class today.”

“Yeah, I know.” I’ve been dreading it since Jillian Stitt called last week.

“This unit is portrait sculpture, so…”

“So, I get to keep my clothes on,” I finish her thought.

“Most of them, I think.” Dacia grabs my arm, and I look at her. “Are you cool with seeing Remi?”

“I don’t know.” He broke my heart, but then I walked into it with eyes wide open.

“The dude’s a mess, if it makes you feel any better.”

“It doesn’t—I want him to be happy.”

“Well, he’s not. You’re doing way better than him.” Dacia hasn’t seen me crying in bed at night.

“I’m sure he’ll be okay.”

How crushed can Remi be when he ‘liked’ and ‘wanted’ me but felt no love for me at all?

* * *

Remi

I’m not ready for this…

I sit alone in the art studio, my ass planted on a high stool behind a sturdy sculpture stand. The wooden base I painted black last week is ready and waiting, the wire armature is attached with heavy staples. The only thing still unprepared for this class is my head.

I needed to get here well before Tristan arrived. I needed time to brace my trembling body on this metal stool, to grit my teeth, to curl my hands into tight fists. To fortify myself.

He won’t be naked, I tell myself, as it’s a small consolation.Tristan is the life model for a portrait sculpture unit. I won’t be forced to study the fine details of the private parts of his body I’ve come to know so well.

Today will be all about the face of the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen—and yes, this is less of a consolation.I’ll focus my attention on the streamlined profile I’ve admired, the classic bone structure I’ve caressed, the fine lips I’ve parted with my tongue, the silken blond hair I’ve run my fingers through. And the mysterious green eyes of changing shades.

What color will they be today?

Measuring his facial proportions with calipers will be a bittersweet challengethat’ll require me to be close enough to smell him. And of course, to touch him. This proximity to the man I love more than I knew was possible… well, it could break me. I can’t let it.

I did this to myself.

Gradually, students enter and set up their sculpture stands with the necessary tools. They gather rotating turntables and wooden sculpture bases coated with dark-colored acrylic paint, pre-made armatures of twisted aluminum wire extending from them like signposts from the street. And, of course, they collect the heavy balls of clay from which they’ll mold their masterpieces. Next to enter the studio is the professor, Jillian Stitt, lugging a heavy tote bag filled with God knows what.

Finally, Tristan steps through the door, closely behind Dacia. My gut clenches.

As he drifts past the dozen staggered sculpture stands, placing one foot cautiously in front of the next, I’m reminded of the first time I saw him. Now—like then—he’s in the room with us… but also is not. His presence seems more ethereal than human. Thoroughly focused, he doesn’t stop moving until he reaches the large window against the wall where Jillian stands.

They chat briefly, and she points to the screen set up in the corner. He shakes his head, shoots her a contrived, yet still beguiling, smile—which she eagerly returns—and floats to the center of the room. There, Tristan tosses his quilted vest to the floor and unbuttons his plaid flannel shirt, letting it fall from his chiseled shoulders. He wears nothing underneath. Before taking a seat on an antique Windsor chair in nothing but his faded jeans, he sets his absent gaze on the clock above the classroom door.

Miracles happen. I manage not to cry out with anguish at the sight of the graceful chest I caressed a mere ten days ago.

Jillian steps to the center of the room, a few feet to the left of Tristan. “Good afternoon, students. Over the past several weeks, we’ve discussed how a sculpture, a photograph, a painting, or any other artistic expression of a subject, can be a portrait, if the face is the primary focus.”

My gaze is pulled to Tristan’s face. Not in the objective manner of an artist, but with the anguish of a scorned lover. A lover who hasn’t, in fact, been treated with even a touch of disdain, as I am the one who scorned him.

“We’ve studied ancient and modern sculpture portraits—noting how they record an individual’s appearance and dare to hint at personality. There truly is magic in a sculptor’s interpretation. In this unit, our sculptures will not be whimsical, but will reflect authenticity, in terms of our model’s appearance. Keep in mind what you learned in last week’s demonstration as you create your three-quarter life-size clay portrait of Tristan.”

Without removing his sage green gaze from the clock, Tristan dips his head in greeting.