Page 87 of More Than Water
Shoving my keys into my jacket pocket, I slug my bag over my shoulder. I head through the length of the apartment, ready to leave. As I’m rounding the sofa in the living room, the entrance door opens, and Chandra appears at the threshold, her cheeks red with exertion. Clumsily, she adjusts her arms in an attempt not to fumble the bolts of fabric, her bag, and what looks like the mail. She’s having a hot-mess moment, if I’ve ever seen one.
I drop my belongings to the ground and scurry over to assist her. “Let me help,” I say, reaching for a collection of fabrics.
“Thanks,” she huffs, gratefully handing over a few items into my aiding arms.
We carry her supplies further inside, sloughing them all on the couch. She steps back and regains her composure after blowing a ridiculous amount of coal hair from her face.
“You should have told me it was supply pickup day,” I remark, staring down at the enormous amount of materials now strewed across the cushions. “I would have helped you.”
“Jeremy was supposed to,” she says, plopping down on the red chair since all of her new belongings are taking up the rest of the seating. “He got sidetracked in the studio and forgot. I don’t know.”
I raise a brow. “Trouble in paradise?”
“No, not at all. He’s great…when we actually do see one another. It’s just the beginning of the term. You know how it is.” She drops her hands to her thighs. “I’ve been swamped with classes, and so has he. I swear, senior year is sucking away my social life.”
“Tell me about it,” I agree, thinking of how I’ve done nothing for the past week, other than go to class, do homework, research, and study.
The cumulative teaching staff has been slamming the entire student body from the beginning of the term, and there’s no letting up in sight. I’ve even had to reduce my hours at the library, down to one day a week, to compensate.
“I’ve barely even seen you since you got back,” I say.
“It’s been really bad, and it looks like you are heading out now.”
“Yeah.” I step around the sofa and pick up my bag from the floor. “I’ve got to go to work.”
“Well, have fun.”
“Thanks.” I position the strap of my bag higher on my shoulder and make my way toward the door.
“You got some mail, by the way,” Chandra states.
My hand lands on the knob. “Oh, yeah?”
She rises from her seat, collects a large envelope from the couch, and holds it in my direction. I give it a cursory glance, noting the Yale emblem in the corner. Based on its size and thickness, it’s safe to assume that the contents include an early acceptance letter. It’s arrived way ahead of schedule, and it makes me wonder if applying was even necessary, as if the institution is begging me to attend with such a blatantly advance reply.
My parents will be pleased that their clout has won me a place they so desperately desire.
“Can you just leave it on the counter?” I open the entrance, uninterested in dealing with that reality. “I’m going to be late.”
“Sure thing,” she replies.
“Thanks.”
I exit the apartment and hurry down the steps.
It’s been almost a week since I emailed my project proposal to Professor Turner for my art theory class.
After speaking with Wolfgang that initial day after class, I had been unable to think about anything other than the impromptu human art project between Foster and me that had occurred over the holiday break. As much as I’d tried, I couldn’t shake the visions of molecules and his face from my mind. Soon, those images had morphed into something else, further expanding upon the idea. So, instead of trying to fight it, I’d decided to surrender and accept that a project focusing on the science of man was what I was going to depict.
I’ve already begun research, and I have a plan of how to accomplish my artistic statement, but I would really like to get Foster involved, if possible. He’s the reason, the inspiration, and the holder of more elemental, chemical, and scientific knowledge than I could likely ever find on my own.
This piece wouldn’t exist, even in theory, without him.
Somehow, somewhere, and someway, Foster has become my muse, and I’ve learned over the years that it’s best not to fight profoundly speaking passion.
Approaching the glass entrance of the engineering library, I spot Foster helping a student at the front desk. It’s been a few days since we saw one another—the last time being when I stopped by his apartment after a long day in the studio. I was beyond exhausted, yet I was drawn to his place, longing for his company. Despite waking him, he greeted me with a smile and invited me to his bed where we partook in what we usually do—sex. I stayed the night, sleeping surprisingly well at his side. It was like the restless part of my brain that always found him could be at ease from knowing he was close.
I’m blaming it on my recent art-project obsession.