Page 46 of Ex Marks the Spot
“Let’s go grab some din—uh, what are you doing? Is this a new technique?”
“It started out as a way to get a different perspective. Now it’s just a state of surrender.”
“I see.” Court joins me on the mattress and mirrors my position, resting his feet at the head of the bed and dangling his head over the bottom edge. “And how long have you been lying like this?”
“Long enough to know there’s no hope for my future. I’ll be the only person with an art degree who can’t actually create art.” I wave my hand dramatically at the blank canvas on my easel. It’s supposed to be a painting ofme and my muse, except that bitch took a permanent vacation and didn’t bother telling me. “Maybe I’ll submit this and call itWashed Up.”
“I don’t think it’s time to throw in the towel just yet.”
“I appreciate the vote of confidence, but I’ve been staring at this damn thing for two weeks and it’s due tomorrow.”
“Okay. First things first. The rest of your body needs blood.” He flips over to pull me up from the foot of the bed and I blink against the subsequent wave of lightheadedness. “Secondly—and don’t shoot the messenger here,” he adds, holding a finger up, “I maintain my stance from our discussion last week: you’re overthinking it and you need to turn your brain off.”
“My brain is all I have left, and even that’s failing me because I haven’t thought of a single way to get my muse back. Is halfway through your senior year too late to change majors? Am I gonna have to repay my scholarship?”
“I don’t know, Ella.”
My jaw drops in mock offense because Court’s sister is crazy talented on stage. “Is that your polite way of telling me I’m being dramatic?”
“All I’m saying is that she’d be proud.”
“Good. Maybe she can get me an acting job instead.”
“You don’t need an acting job; you just have to figure out what your muse looks like.”
“Which is exactly what I’ve been doing for literally fourteen days, but it’s not working.”
“Why not?”
I flop backward onto my mattress and splay out my arms like a helpless starfish. “Because she isn’t a figure, she’s a feeling.”
“. . . So, your muse is an emotion?”
“Not exactly. It’s more of a bubble or a spark or a percolation that lives right here.” I pinch my fingers together and touch the base of my sternum. “A lot of artists say they get inspiration from their muse. The two other people in my group are like that. KeriAnn did an ethereal-looking fairy that’s whispering in her ear, and Pranesh did one with the top of his head open like a box and his muse popping out. But mine gives me a feeling that creates the idea for the art. It’s the energy behind the inspiration if that makes sense.”
“And you can’t do this project because you don’t have that spark of energy to inspire the idea?”
I nod. “I know I could assign random characteristics to my muse and paint that, but it wouldn’t be an accurate representation. As dumb as it sounds, I’d rather turn in nothing than turn in something that’s fake or wrong.”
“Wanting to stay true to your heart is authentic and admirable, not dumb.”
Gah! If I wasn’t already lying on my bed, his sincerity and validation would’ve sent me swooning to the floor. I’m about to tell him this when he ruins the moment by saying,
“Also, you’re kind of an idiot.”
“Excuse me?” My jaw drops for the second time as I yank the pillow from behind my head and playfully whack him with it. “And here I was thinking you were being so sweet.”
He laughs and tosses the pillow aside, then pulls me up and presses a kiss to my forehead. “You’re incredible and talented and brilliant and adorable.”
“This is better. Feel free to keep going.”
“But you’re kind of an idiot because you’ve already solved your problem and you don’t even realize it.”
I squint up at him. “Is this a psych major mind trick? I’m pretty sure all I did wasexplainmy problem.”
“Allow me to summarize our conversation.” He extends his thumb and says, “Your assignment is to paint you with your muse, but you can’t find her and that’s giving you artist’s block.” He adds a finger. “Your muse is a feeling that lives in your chest and feeds your inspiration.” Another finger. “You don’t want to personify her because she’s not a figure that directly communicates with you.”
Well, I can’t say he wasn’t listening to me. But still. “I’m not seeing the solution in there,” I say, pointing to his hand.