Page 24 of Surrender to Me

Chapter 14

While we agreed that we wanted to be together, putting aside all reservations, I didn’t tell anyone about Owen. At least not yet. I wasn’t ready to be open about it with my review coming up, even though I knew I had to come out about it sooner rather than later. Better for the students and faculty to know before I entered any classes. But the idea of how it might affect my review still terrified me.

Clay and Misty figured it out quickly. Each night when I packed overnight bags before heading to No Doze, Clay would ask where I was going, and Misty would wink, saying she knew. I smiled back, keeping it to myself. From work, I went to Owen’s house. He even gave me a grand tour, giving me free rein of the property. And when we came across those blood-red slashes on the midnight blue background, he nodded.

“Why two?” I asked.

“Balance,” he said. “Opposite forces.”

“It makes me think of love,” I said, dreamily thinking out loud. “You must have hate to have love—”

“And violence to have pleasure,” he said, making me blush.

As we viewed each piece he had displayed, I realized I was afraid to leave any of my work at the graduate studio. Owen offered to let me use a spare bedroom as a personal studio, and seeing as he had more than a few available rooms, I accepted. The next day, my sculptures were at his house, some displayed in the fire room, others in the garden. That night, Owen gave me two keys, one to his place and another separate key. He led me to a spare room. He gestured at the lock, and I opened it.

“You’re the only one who has a key,” he said.

“Not even Gina?” He shook his head. “Not even you?”

“Not even me.”

There were two huge windows with colonial grids looking out over the garden, the blue flowers vibrant, even in the darkness. The moon lit everything in a soft light—the bookshelf, the lamp in the corner, the tufted chaise lounge, and Owen’s smile. I turned towards him in awe, and thanked him. He held my hands in his, then squeezed my fingers.

“You’re amazing, Riley Glass,” he said.

The relaxation around his eyes, the clarity, it was a look I hadn’t seen before, like he was finally letting go of those boundaries. I held his face in my hands, looking up at him, searching him for the first time. The walls that stood like jade stones were no longer there, but there was a light easing itself to the front. I felt his jaw, his cheeks, ran my fingertips across his eyebrows, his mouth, wanting to capture everything about his vulnerability. The prestigious, completely charismatic, protective, impressive, and dominant Owen Lowell, my Owen, opening himself up. Our lips met, and it felt like it was the first time we were truly with each other, completely ourselves. We peeled off each other’s clothes, and I felt every inch of him. I imprinted his posture, the way he held his shoulders, that slight give in his neck, the way I knew he needed me by the way he held himself.

It was as if time had slowed down, like a plant stretching its roots a little more each day. When we weren’t ravishing each other, making up for lost time by taking advantage of every single inch of skin, I worked on the glass sculptures. After putting down tarps, I cast and molded the resin perfectly, thinking of the best shapes and moods to depict what I felt inside. Owen was right: I didn’t need the film. I had the forms in my head, brewing and churning with anticipation. And most of all, I had Owen now, and he was inspiration enough.

The night of my opening, I kept changing outfits. Even if each one looked basically the same (how many ways could you dress up a black dress?), I still felt out of place. It seemed like no matter what I wore, nothing would make me feel like I could pass for an artist who had an exhibition. Owen knocked on the door frame.

“Wow,” he said, peeking in. “You look—”

“Like I’m trying too hard or like I’m not trying hard enough.”

He walked closer, taking my chin in his hand. “Beautiful is what I was going to say,” he said. He kissed me. I sunk into him, relaxing my shoulders at his touch. He had a way of making me forget things, even if only for a moment.

As soon as he let go, I gestured at the full-length mirror. “How the hell do I look the part? I don’t want to look like an idiot in front of everyone, especially my mom.”

“You deserve it, Riley. Stop trying to talk yourself out of it.”

Damn mind reader. I was thinking of skipping it, telling Lisa that I had food poisoning. Sprinkle in a detail like it was explosive—which end? I would leave that up to the imagination—and no one, not even Lisa, would ask questions. I couldn’t be the only artist who got cold feet on her opening day. Owen took something out of his pocket: the gold choker with the diamond teardrop that he had given me at Fisherman’s Wharf. I was flushed at the embarrassing memory of throwing at him after the Monterey trip. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he returned it and I never saw it again. I lifted my hair and he linked the strand together.

“We won’t be talking at the gallery,” he said. His fingertips brushed my neck and I shivered. “But I want you to know that I’m always with you.”

I realized that that was why I was even more nervous than I should have been. At the opening, I wouldn’t be able to talk to Owen, let alone get a hand squeeze from him to remind me that everything was all right. I touched his cheek, and his expression was one I hadn’t seen before. He was glowing, smirking with pride.

“What is it?” I asked.

“You’re fucking beautiful, Riley Glass. And you’re mine,” he said.

I turned towards the mirror. The necklace on my neck was perfect; the gold seemed to bring the whole look together, making the striking black a little more elegant. It was shocking how a small touch could change everything. Owen rested his head on my shoulder, locking eyes with me in the reflection.

“Are you ready?” he asked.

“It sucks that we have to pretend to be strangers,” I said.

“Pretend I’m not there. You won’t even notice.”

I rolled my eyes. “Like anyone would not notice you, Owen Lowell,” I said mockingly.

He grinned. “You didn’t for months.”

I remembered that fact. “Touche, my friend.”

“Boyfriend,” he corrected.

I smiled. “My boyfriend,” I said.