Midnight Muse

“Can I walk you to class?” He asks, so endearingly that it’s going hurt to say no. I just need a few minutes alone, though, so I have to decline.

“Sorry, Reid, I’m already going to be late as it is,” I aim for joking, no matter how much I don’t feel like being chipper. “I don’t need you seeing me after I run across campus with my backpack in the heat. But I’ll see you at the party this weekend, right?”

I don’t give him the room to argue. I want to walk to class alone and thankfully he takes the hint, nodding. “Yeah, I’ll see you this weekend.”

I smile, waving, finally releasing the pent-up breath in my chest as I stride back towards campus. There’s no fucking way I’m running in front of any of them. I’m not that desperate to get to class yet, so I walk into the lecture five minutes late but feeling slightly better from the space.

I slide into the back row, next to a boy whose head is tucked deeply into his notebook, writing down more notes than Doff seems to be sharing on his screen. Maybe I should befriend him, he seems like he’d be willing to help with the intent way he’s diligently taking notes.

He wears tortoiseshell glasses and they frame his warm azure eyes that track me as I take the empty seat next to him, quietly trying to get my notebook out of my bag. His blond fringe hangs as he leans down to continue his notes, and his broad shoulders pulled in tight like I’ve left him no room to stretch out.

It makes me feel a little bad.

“Excuse me,” I whisper, snagging his attention. I’m nervous, not sure what kind of attitude I’m going to get from the boy as I disturb his work. “I’m sorry for bothering you, but would you mind filling me in on what I missed?”

His gaze flickers to the coffee on my desk and I immediately feel judged. He doesn’t get to draw conclusions as to why I’m late for this dreaded class. He doesn’t know how much I desperately needed the coffee to get through this, and frankly, it’s none of his business.

“Sure,” he agrees, and I could cry with joy. “If you bring me a coffee next time.”

I scowl, because what the hell? But then Doff switches slides and the boys hand flies over his paper, scribbling down all of the notes in what appears to be the nicest handwriting I’ve ever seen coming from a man.

“Fine,” I huff.

He looks up from his notebook to grin at me before returning to the paper. “Sick. I’m Odie, and I’ll take whatever that is because it looks good as fuck.”

I let out a startled laugh that has a few students glaring our way. I sink back in my seat, opening my notebook to a fresh page, jotting the words on the screen down. “You have yourself a deal, Odie,” I mutter under my breath, “I’m Quinn, by the way. And the coffee is good as fuck.”

He snickers as I’m shushed and I duck my head, glaring at the words about art in a time period I don’t understand a thing about.

CHAPTER 8

QUINN

When I was a little girl, I was obsessed with drawing. So much so, that when my school would host art shows, my parents would invite all of my extended family along to see my work. The ribbons and congratulations made me feel ecstatic at the time, like I was an unstoppable force. It was a reminder that I was good at what I loved, which brought smiles to my family’s faces.

The constant praise made me feel like each piece after needed to be better, and the next had to be even more breath-taking than the whatever came before it. It was a vicious cycle I found myself stuck in, always striving to create something more superior than the last. On and on it went, until sometime in the middle of high school, I completely burnt out.

Of course, I didn’t tell my parents this—I didn’t tell anyone, not even Rory. Art doesn’t mean the same to me as it did back then. Somehow it went from something I loved spending all my time doing to something that I felt had to do. It was me, and always has been, forcing myself to keep up with the demands that my family and I set for myself.

Five years later, I was relieved to be out of Seattle—from under my parents’ thumbs—hoping if I could explore a few classes, something might strike my creative match again. Last year, I took most of my general education classes and Drawing 101, just to keep up with my skills, but for most of freshman year, I took a break from drawing and allowed myself the time to just be a student, to make friends and have fun.

Now, as I delve further into the art sphere, it still doesn’t feel right. I want to be in art, I love it with all of my heart, but there is no excitement anymore, only a nervousness that I pretend not to show.

I often sit in class and compare my work to those around me. Even my friends’—I can feel a thousand happy things when I look at their pieces but when I study my own, it doesn’t feel good enough. It never feels good enough. I don’t feel good enough.

Which is why I find myself lingering around the art building after my Critical Thinking class on Friday afternoon, the night of Vulcan University’s homecoming football game. I’m spending my time critically thinking about all of my life choices right now.

I stare at the work that past classes have made, hanging throughout the otherwise drab halls of the establishment. This building used to house most of the art classes, is the second oldest building on campus, but in all of the years of its occupation, no one has decided to stray from painting the walls anything other than the one shade off of pure white that they are.

Walking down the corridor, I admire the different techniques used to create them. Most are drawn with charcoal or pencils, black and white renderings of a still life. I remember doing that last year in Drawing 101. It had been nice to sit and work on something that didn’t move, didn’t change or judge me or use too much brain power. It was practical, the items tangible and something that couldn’t necessarily be screwed up.

It had been our challenge to work on proportions and perspectives. I liked that mine was different from everyone else’s because no one sat in exactly the same spot, didn’t have the same angle that I did. Each piece was meant to look different from the start, and sure, I could compare technique, but I couldn’t compare my viewpoint against my classmates.’ It had been easy to lose myself in the simplistic set up of the bowl of fruit.

The drawings end as I round the corner. My ears perk up at soft music flowing down the halls. Looking ahead, I realize I’ve turned down the hallway to the ceramics and sculpture classrooms. It’s another art class I’d been contemplating taking this semester, but didn’t line up with my schedule.

I follow the sound of the upbeat music down the hall. The closer I move, the more I pick up on the familiar sounds of someone working on a masterpiece. The whirring of the pottery wheel drawls soothingly under the music. The splashing of water as the artist wets their hands, it draws me in like the busybody I am, peeking my head through the door.

It’s a large classroom, much like the drawing room. Afternoon sun pours in through the windows, painting the atmosphere in a golden light. It’s crowded with large tables and chairs, walls lined with towering racks for the students to hold their pieces. Pottery wheels sit in perfectly straight lines and I immediately spot the one being used, my surprise at who it is has me blurting his name.