I’m sure she’s right, but that doesn’t dull the churning feeling gripping me right now. Retrieving a white fluffy robe from cabinet near her desk, Mrs. Jackson directs me to a room that looks to be a teacher’s lounge that she claims all the models use and is completely secure. There are textbooks littering a small circular table at its center, and a short row of cabinets along the wall behind it that house an overlarge coffee maker, stacks of Styrofoam cups and stirrers, various creamers, and a microwave. It’s exactly what I imagined a teacher’s lounge to look like.
Glimpsing a mini fridge humming off to the side, I steal a bottle of water and gulp it down, hoping it will give me enough distraction to calm down.
Then I realize what a total mistake I just made, because I’ll end up having to use the bathroom a dozen times, so I spend the next ten minutes in the adjacent bathroom trying to evacuate my bladder.
Twenty minutes later, and I am standing outside a closed door completely naked but for the robe clenched around me. The blue and cream speckled linoleum is cool under my bare feet. Through a long, rectangular window, I can see Mrs. Jackson lecturing her students. There’s a mix of men and women, all roughly my age, seated on their stools in front of the canvasses they will be immortalizing my image on.
It strikes me all over again that I go to school with these people. If they didn’t know me before, they will now. I’ll be the-girl-who-took-her-clothes-off.
Before I can freak myself out more, Mrs. Jackson notices my presence and her burgundy painted lips split into a wide grin. She says something to the class, and they all turn their heads to look at me.
God, I should run now. But I don’t.
Mrs. Jackson walks over and opens the door. “Come in, come in. We were just talking about you.” She waves me inside with a flip of her hand, and I follow her into the room. My focus is on her back, on the way the fabric ripples like soft ocean waves with each step she takes. If I look up, I’ll bolt. It’s that simple.
“Please drop your robe and stretch out on the table,” she directs.
My fingers tighten on the plush fabric for a brief instant before I shove it away. I climb onto the table, feeling the slight chill of the wood seep through thin cotton sheet against my buttocks. Turning onto my side, I allow Mrs. Jackson to manipulate my limbs how she wants them. My right arm stretches out, is bent at the elbow with my hand opened wide to support my head. My left arm is brought forward on the table to steady me. My legs, which are clamped tight together and stretched long, are separated. She brings one knee forward, and I tense as the air touches between my thighs.
My mind goes wild imagining what the students positioned directly south of me must see. What will they draw? Do they like what they see? Are they turned on, or just as embarrassed as I am? I may take off my clothes for a living, but that doesn’t make me an exhibitionist. I don’t enjoy showing off my body to anyone willing to look at it. At least, not in this context. Even in a strip club, there are boundaries, limitations.
After I am positioned just how Mrs. Jackson wants me, she leaves the circle, taking on the role of an observer. “Okay, class. As you know, you have twenty minutes to perform your first sketch. Try to capture the form as you see it. Focus on light and shadow and use it to create depth in the drawing. I will be walking around the room to take a peek at everyone’s work. If you have a question for me, just raise your hand and I will come over. Clock starts now.”
With the exception of the light scratching of pencils on canvas and the dull clack of Mrs. Jackson’s pumps as she moves around the room, everything is silent. At first it makes me even more aware of all the eyes on me, but as the minutes tick by, I begin to relax and I find my thoughts drifting inward.
I’m in a nearly sleep-like state by the time we’re halfway into the second pose, when I hear the knock on the door. It’s a faint rap, and my gaze flicks up, following Mrs. Jackson’s back as she walks over to answer it.
She opens the door a crack and sticks her head out—murmurs follow, the words unintelligible. Although curious, I retreat back into myself.
I know I shouldn’t, but I’ve been using this time to reflect on my relationship with Ransom. Annie’s suggestion is still fresh in my mind and with the end of class looming on the horizon, I’ve come to realize that I am not over him. Not in the slightest. Severing ties hasn’t worked. Having to see him every day, in fact, has only made the distance worse.
Seeing but no touching. The detached way we speak to each other. The longing looks and denial that nothing is going on between us. All of it keeps the wounds fresh.
Without that clean break, it’s impossible to close the door. Instead, the smallest look or spoken word sends it flying wide open again.
The memories are inescapable, and so is he.
That point is only solidified when Mrs. Jackson steps back and I see Ransom enter the room.
TWENTY-ONE
My heart stops dead in my chest and my gaze skates down Ransom’s body. He’s dressed in simple black slacks and a pale pink button-down shirt, and I can’t help drinking him. It’s like he was plucked right out of my thoughts and dropped into the room just to torture me.
What is he doing here? I communicate the question with a firm look, one that Ransom returns with a cool, even face that reveals absolutely nothing.
Defiance. That’s what I’m labeling that look. He knows this is the last place he should be, the last place I would want him to be, but he showed up anyway. Annie once said he was a man abusing his power, and I have to admit, right now I agree with her. I wonder what he told himself to defy all of his rules and risk being here tonight.
Mrs. Jackson is giving him a guided tour of her students’ work, pointing to certain aspects that she finds notable. He nods and murmurs a reply at all the right times, but each time he looks away from me, his gaze returns a heartbeat later.
The more it happens, the more my insides flare with heat. It’s a demanding ache that starts in my chest as a flicker of nerves and travels lower until it’s a burning desire for so much more. He scans my body, and to the casual observer, it’s a clinical assessment. Just a professor observing art in progress. To me, though, this is foreplay. Annie may have been right, but I find that I don’t really mind.
He’s teasing me with his constant looks. And that hint of a smile teasing his thick, firm lips? He slays me. I can’t stop the memories of him looking at me like that when he was inside of me.
It’s impossible to miss the desire in his eyes, just as it’s impossible to deny the mounting need in my belly as he moves beyond my peripheral vision. Unable to see him, my breathing grows deeper, heavier, and I have to double my efforts to concentrate on maintaining my pose.
“She’s doing very well,” Mrs. Jackson comments, and my ears perk up.
“I can see that.” Ransom’s voice is soft and husky. Unobtrusive in the otherwise quiet room, but like a pin drop, I hear every word.
“If only all of my models were as poised as this one. I’m tempted to bribe her into dropping your class and joining mine.” There’s a teasing lilt to Mrs. Jackson’s voice, but I suspect she’s partially serious.
“The semester ends in two weeks, Celeste. You’re free to scoop up whoever you want then.”
“Indeed I will.”
“Do you mind if I sit in on the rest of the class? I’d love to see the finished products.”
“Absolutely,” Mrs. Jackson says wholeheartedly. “You can have my chair if you’d like.”
I want so badly to turn and look at him. I can feel Ransom’s eyes on me, staring at the slope of my back, the curve of my butt. The place between my thighs that begs for his attention.