The Muse's Undoing

“So this is gonna be a thing?”

“I don’t know,” he says. “Maybe.”

“Because you like her, or it’s convenient?”

“Because she’s good in bed, and she’s convenient. Am I the asshole?”

“Maybe.”

He leans his head on his arm and seems to study my face. “Unless you have time to keep me company.”

“I wouldn’t want to interrupt.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“I didn’t hear one,” I point out.

“Do you have time for me anymore?”

“What do you want with me?” I ask, mirroring his position.

He strokes his thumb over the side of my hand. “Keep me out of trouble?”

His hand feels nice. His presence feels nice. I do want to make time for him. Soak him in until it feels more real—not like one of his brief visits where I’d get to see him for a few hours at our parents’ house—or the ones where he’d let me know he was in town, but our schedules never worked out to be able to meet up. It’s made me wonder over the years if I had as big of an impact on him as he had on me.

Doubtful.

I was impressionable back then. He was already jaded. I can’t remember a time Fischer didn’t seem jaded, even as a teenager.

“I work a lot,” I tell him, “but it sounds like our schedules are gonna line up well.”

“What about your muse?”

“I’ll always make time for her, and I have a sculpture I’m working on, but coming up here before or after a shift is easy enough,” I tell him.

Fischer grins. “Good. So, how often do you see Vaughn? Any tips?”

I laugh. “Sorry. No. Unless you have a padded room. Actually I don’t get to see him that much. I have shitty hours.” I work evenings mostly, 2pm-10pm, and every other weekend I work deep nights. Making time for my nephew hasn’t been possible. The truth is, Vaughn is wild, and he makes me nervous. I’m terrified he’s always one furniture leap away from breaking his arm. “I’m surprised Mom and Dad aren’t coming over.”

“Oh, they tried.” Fischer’s thumb grazes back and forth over the edge of my thumbnail, and I try to ignore the chills erupting on my arm. “They might need to take a vacation for a couple of months and distract themselves some other way.”

“You want me to talk to them?” I offer.

“If you think it could help,” he says.

“Can’t hurt. I don’t want you feeling bad about wanting to spend time with your kid.”

“I feel bad about everything.”

“I know, but you shouldn’t.” I fold his hand into mine. Our fingers interlace like they used to in the middle of the night. “You were just doing your job.”

“My job that lost me everything.”

“Not everything,” I remind him.

He takes a deep, shaky breath.

“Hey—he’s six. You talk to him every day. And you’re back. It’s not like you ever abandoned him.”