Drift (Lengths) (3 page)

“It hung in the hallway of my childhood home,” I relate with careful disconnect. “My mother had it framed for my father for his birthday. It had just arrived from the framer’s that day, and my father hammered a special hook into the wall to hold the weight of it while we were eating breakfast. I had just come in after my violin lesson
. I was only ten, maybe. And the phone rang in my parents’ room. I was putting my violin away in the hall closet, across from the painting, and I stopped to look at it.”

The lecture room blurs until it’s not in front of me: instead I’m back in my parents’ house, before they laid the hardwood in the hall, so there’s still the soft crush of the gold shag carpet that my mother loathed under my shiny new loafers.

It smelled spicy and rich, like my mother had a soup bubbling on the stove. It was rare for my father to be home this early from work, but his father was very ill and he was taking a flight to Mexico that night. I could hear my parents moving around their bedroom, packing and talking to each other in Spanish, my mother laughing softly when my father sang her a few lines from a dirty folk song. I was about to go in and tell them that I was starting Mozart and my teacher said I showed “incredible promise.”

And then the phone rang. I don’t think they realized I was home.

I’m positive they didn’t, actually, because my father never cried in front of any of us before or he never has since. If he knew his daughter was in the hall, I think he would have internalized all the emotions that split open and spilled out. All the crying.

Except it wasn’t even ‘crying.’ That word has to do with tears and hiccups, sobs and maybe a groan or two.

This was a
wailing
that came from somewhere deep and low in my father’s soul. I heard a drop, like he’d collapsed. My mother said something in rapid Spanish into the phone, and then she tried to comfort my father. I heard her try. But he was screaming too loud, the noise punctured with pain and misery in pure vocal form, and it slithered into the hall and into me.

It’s not just that I heard it. It snaked into my ears and webbed over my brain. It sank low into my heart and even
—yes—twisted my guts.

I slid down outside the closet door and pressed my hands over my ears, trying to drown out the noise of my father’s heartbreak, his years of guilt about not seeing his father as often as he should, their last argument about family and loyalty, which wound up being their last words in this life
—it all morphed into howls of grief over a death that snatched a life away before amends could be made.

When I looked up, the Baruj Salinas painting that was just a modernist rub of colors and indistinct shape had grown into something hideous, like a monster. And it felt
real
, even though I was a sensible ten-year-old and had no fear of the dark and knew there are no such things as monsters.

It felt like that sound could only come out of the mouth of something so huge and terrifying, it couldn’t be human. It couldn’t be my serious, calm father with his handsome smile and sleek mustache who was making all that insane, frightening noise.

I glared at the painting for the few minutes my father’s screams lasted. When they finally died down to miserable groans, I tiptoed outside and waited, huddled in our dilapidated tree fort, for dinner time to come home. I never said a word, not when my mother gathered my siblings and sat us on the couch to tell us that Abuelo had passed away and Papi had to lie down and we could eat right here in front of the TV if we promised to be quiet.

I forget that there’s an entire class listening until the girl next to me breathes, “Wow. That’s a beautiful story, Lydia.”

I sink down in the hard plastic chair and realize that all my muscles ache, like I was holding them tense while I told my story.

I wave my hand dismissively and laugh. “It was just a strange day from my childhood. That’s all. But, yes, the painting is very clear in my memory, and I still have a visceral reaction to it every single time I walk by.”

“Of course.” Professor Ortiz’s eyes are a clear, liquid green. “It was the day your father stopped being a giant in your eyes and became a man. That’s no easy day for any child.” He meets my eyes and it’s like he’s communicating reams of his own story. I want to tell him it’s all white noise to me. “I’m just glad Salinas was there to get you through it.”

The rest of class is a little more subdued. I guess my weirdo story stopped most of the melodrama in its tracks. After we’d heard an older man describe seeing his father’s original Norman Rockwell collection, always kept in a special vault that felt odd considering the hominess of the family-focused subject matter, the large clock over the whiteboard gave out a loud tic and Professor Ortiz turned to look at it, surprised.

“Thank you for sharing that with us, Harold. I’m afraid that’s all we have time for today.”

There are little moans I’m willing to bet have nothing to do with being sad about the story-sharing being over and everything to do with Isaac Ortiz, rockstar professor, walking out the door.

The process of getting books and supplies together is excruciatingly slow, with many sighs and fluttered eyelashes directed the sexy professor’s way, and there’s a clog in the exit leading to the door. I slide my notebook into my bag and grimace, thinking about what I’ll do for dinner. This used to be my night to cook Italian with Richard, but that’s obviously not an option now.

   My friend has already rushed the stage, so to speak, and is yammering a mile a minute to Professor Ortiz.

“...so my parents were hosting a dinner at the Getty, and I’m sure they love to have you come along! They’re always trying to gather the most innovative minds in one place. Here’s the information. My name is Samantha Henderson.”

Ah! Samantha
, I think with relief. It will be so nice to talk to her without worrying about getting caught in a glaring social faux pas.

I’m making my way out the door when I hear Samantha’s voice call out, “Professor Ortiz! I was just wondering if you…”

I turn to look and see that she trails off as he gives her a quick wave over his shoulder and comes to walk beside me.

“Ms. Rodriguez?” His smile is blindingly white, but I don’t even mind the reduced visibility. It’s easier to deal with him when I can’t see his handsomeness too clearly.

“Professor.” I return his smile and let him lead me off to the side to avoid the chaotic traffic of too many bodies pressing close in an attempt to eavesdrop. “It was a really great lecture.”

“Lecture?” He rubs his jaw self-consciously, and I catch the barest whiff of his sharp, clean cologne. “It was really more a storytelling session, I guess. I think it worked out in the end, though. I’m glad you enjoyed. The story you shared...I know I’ll be thinking about it for days.”

I press my eyebrows low. It’s a strange thing to say under normal situations, but this is an art professor. I guess he’s supposed to be eccentric and crazy honest.

“I’m glad. You sort of bullied me into sharing,” I tease.

His furrowed brow is adorable. “I’m so sorry if you feel that way. I never meant to make you feel you had to share if you didn’t want to.”

I put a hand out and touch his arm. He’s wearing a button-down, open at the neck, no tie. I can feel the heat of his skin through the thin fabric. A fizzy charge of electricity burns through me. “It was a joke. I’ve never told that story before, so it was a little strange to just let it all out in the middle of class. But I guess that’s what art is all about, right?”

He nods. The lecture hall is clearing. Even the most persistent groupies seem to get the message that Professor Ortiz isn’t available right now and stomp away in their adorable heels and miniskirts.

“Yes. Exactly. I’d love to talk to you about it in more detail,” he says, and he smiles like he’s waiting for the ‘yes’ he just expects to fall out of my mouth.

Which makes
me
smile. A man as smart and passionate and
holy hell
good-looking has to be used to having women eat of the palm of his hand on a regular basis. And it’s tempting: it
really
is. But I’m in this class for weeks, and I think it would be supremely stupid to get a crush on my instructor or vice versa. If I were an undergrad? I’d giggle and bat my lashes so hard, I’d probably incur eye damage.

But I’m not. I’m a grown-up now, and I know better.

My experiences with Richard were excellent for showing me how to
not
mix professional and personal.

So my brain gives a big, sad sigh, and I smile politely at that angel face and try so damn hard to stop thinking about throwing him down on my silk sheets and stripping every thread off of his tight body.

“I’d love to, but I’m busy. I’ll see you in class!”

Before he can say another word, I rush to the parking lot, my cheeks on fire, my stomach in pulsing knots. I slide into the leather interior of my car and my hands shake so badly, I can hardly fit the key in the ignition.

What is going on with me? Apparently my blood sugar has taken a serious dip. I decide to stop by my parents’ for dinner. I’ll avoid the Salinas print, deflect talk about work, and smile through a safe, warm, home-cooked meal with the people I can always count on.

And I swear I won’t spend the entire time imagining what dinner across the table from Isaac Ortiz would be like, our heads bent close, our eyes locked, me watching his mouth as he eats and trying to picture his lips dragging on my body…

I’m clearly delusional from the stress in my life coupled with a serious lack of sex. Good thing I went to that sex-toy party my sister-in-law’s co-worker hosted and am more than capable of taking the edge off all on my own.

I pull out of the parking lot and try to convince myself a meal with my parents followed by an evening with my vibrator isn’t the saddest scenario in the world.

4  ISAAC

I’ve been working on my next guest lecture for the life development class for two weeks. When I’m not putting together slides and making notes, I’m walking the campus, sitting on benches outside the building where Lydia Rodriguez’s class met, hoping to catch a glimpse again.

Just when I was wishing that Lydia would hunt me down and find me—which women have done before, to my delight and dismay—I heard a knock at my door.

Mia showed up at my apartment, and it was incredibly easy to press her back and gently show her the door. I knew sex with her would be impossible. I’d spend the entire time thinking of Lydia, her tanned skin, all that shiny, soft hair, her big eyes, a warm, wicked golden-brown. My fingers would be itching to trace Lydia’s curves and my tongue would be hungry for the taste of her sweat-slicked skin.

Completely impossible.

“Isaac,” Mia had breathed, pressing her ample chest against me. “We had so much fun the last weekend we were together. I’m ready for that again. I’m ready to be with you.”

I put my hands on her shoulders, looked into her big, innocent eyes, and regretted starting anything with her. I had a feeling she might fall harder and faster than I would, and when it became clear I wasn’t at risk for falling at all, I should have cut things off. But I didn’t, and now she’ll wind up hurt, which was never my intention.

“I care about you, Mia. I do. As a friend, I want what’s best for you. But things are crazy right now, and I just don’t think it’s a good time for either of us to get serious.”

Her eyes shadowed. “Really? That’s not what you said when we locked ourselves in that hotel room all weekend. I guess I didn’t realize you were only after one thing.” She yanked her body away from my hold and crossed her arms over her chest, her lips pinched tight.

“Mia, we talked about keeping things low-key. Neither one of us went into this expecting anything long-term
—”

“Maybe that’s not what we
expected
, but what about what happened between us?” she asked, throwing her hand up. Then she studied my face and shook her head when the realization hit. She wiped at her eyes quickly and hiccupped a sob. “Oh. I see. It was just me. You weren’t feeling it at all. My god, I’m an idiot. I’m so stupid.”

“Stop saying that.” I walked toward her, but the eager shine in her eyes stopped me. Because it was over, and I wanted her to know that. But I hated how much it was hurting her. “If you felt more than I did, I’m sorry…”

I trailed off, because what was I supposed to say? Mia sucked her cheeks in and backed away, giving me one long, harsh look before she slammed the door hard behind her.

Yes, I felt pangs of guilt. I felt like a huge jerk. But I also felt like Mia leaving gave me the opportunity to make a clean break and start new. With someone new.

Someone I can’t stop thinking about, even if it’s not rational. Someone different from the needy, over-eager girls I’ve wasted too much time with.

Lydia is unlike anyone I’ve been with before.

She’s guarded, but when she opens herself up, it’s like she lets every defense fall to the wayside, and that vulnerability? It’s something rare.

I think about it as I set up the easel in my studio, right under the length of skylights that made me decide on this place over other apartments with more square footage or better locations. The ceilings rise and dive at strange angles, and the rooms run together like a crooked jigsaw, but the
light
. There’s no way to recreate natural light like this, and I’m thankful for every sunny day I get to spend in front of my canvas.

I set the music on my iPod loud, strip down to just my jeans, and prepare a tray of oil paint. I start mixing, letting my brain unhook from every worry that’s tethered me all week long. I shift colors, trying to get the perfect blend of gold with shots of deep brown to capture the color of Lydia’s eyes when she was deep in memory. I sketch and erase over and over, attempting to capture the curve of her lips when she smiled after calling me a bully. My arm becomes a part of the brush, and I let it go loose and shape the outlines of her body, the soft, sweet swells and curves that walked away from me with a confidence that is still driving me crazy.

Painting Lydia draws me in like nothing I’ve ever worked on before—to the point where I miss hearing my phone and almost miss a call from my mother.

Fortunately
—or unfortunately, depending on what she has to say—I catch it before the last ring.

“Isaac.” My mother’s clipped, rich voice always sounds distracted. Like she’s always noticing someone more interesting to talk to a second after getting you on the phone. “Florence is on fire right now. You have to come. Mari
e is asking about you.”

I grit my teeth and close my eyes against the image of Marie, my mother’s best friend, who stripped down and offered to spend the weekend ‘teaching me things I’d never forget’ the last time I saw her.

“I’m working now,” I tell her patiently for the fiftieth time. “There’s no way I could come to Florence.”

“Is it money,
hijo
? Because I’ll have a ticket waiting at the counter. Can you fly out of LAX? Ugh.” I can practically see her slim shoulders folded in as she shudders. “I hate that place. Too many people, and all of them always
gawking
.”

“I told you I don’t need any money.” I walk across my loft and grab a beer from the fridge. I get a head
start on the buzz that I pray will help me deal with my mother’s constant griping. “And I can’t leave work. Besides my guest lecture spot, I’m working on an exhibit. I have a few pieces to finish for the gallery.”

“I just don’t understand,” she says, her voice taking on that nagging quality she claims to hate when her friends do it. “Your father never had to stay in one place. He was always jetting all over, and he didn’t answer to anyone.”

“He cost himself and all of us a lot of opportunities doing that.” I tip the beer back and let the bitter taste pour over my tongue and down my throat. I keep drinking through most of her monologue.

“Opportunities! As if anyone else can give those to you! Grow up, Isaac. A true artist takes what he needs. Rips it from the streets. Paints it on the bricks. That’s the way your father’s always done it, and it’s kept us in the lifestyle we enjoy.”

“What about—” I stop; the beer bottle held so tight in my fist, I feel like I might be able to crush the glass.

I want to say,
What about the money he wasted chasing his ‘muses’ around the world? What about the drugs and booze, the fancy hotels he tore apart? What about the days you couldn’t reach him and had no clue if he was coming back? What would you know about art at all? All you ever did was worship him and parrot his every word and thought. You never created anything of your own.

Every word would be true.

And vicious.

I’m not honest or cruel enough to deliver a punch like
to my own mother, no matter how much she enrages me. “Mamá, I hope you enjoy Florence. Another time we will meet up. There’s always my show in a few weeks if you’re interested.”

I don’t hold my breath, and I’m so used to her excuses and dodges, it doesn’t bother me for a single second when she says, “Oh, but I’d have to fly into LAX. You know I hate LAX. Why can’t you get a gallery showing in Barcelona? Or Seville at least? Your father has connections all over Spain. Why would you insist on marooning yourself in the United States?”

“I’m not using my father’s name to get me ahead. I’ve explained this. I have to go now. I’m in the middle of working on a new series. I’ll talk to you later.”

She makes kissy noises in the phone, but her attention is already drawn to something else more interesting before we hang up. I finish my beer in a few ice cold gulps,
and then look at my canvas again.

Damn. She’s gorgeous.

The artist in me wants to track her down and see if my mind is remembering her skin silkier than it really is. I wonder if I’ve given her eyes more of a golden luster with just a hint of light brown. I can’t quite remember how much of her hair was sun-kissed and the exact curve of her lips.

I walk toward it, then back away. I turn it to get the last few rays of the setting sun and wonder how I’ll wait two more Tuesdays, until my next assigned lecture day.

And then the most obvious fact hits me upside the head, and I trip into my shoes and toss a t-shirt over my head. I root around the house and find a baseball cap and a pair of sunglasses. I shrug on a jacket and head out the door, feeling like a fool for all this precaution. But I haven’t been able to walk across this campus without getting mobbed by students from all disciplines who want to talk to me about art, philosophy...my social life.

I’m getting a lot of inquiries about where I’ve eaten, good bars I’ve been to, great places to unwind and dance or see foreign movies or surf. I’ve been asked by handsome young men with shy, eager smiles and beautiful, coy girls who play with their shining hair when they talk.

The attention is overwhelming and embarrassing. It’s also confusing. I’m not a bad-looking guy, and I’m a fair artist, but this celebrity-type treatment makes me feel like a fish trapped in a bowl.

The thing is, for all their admiration, so few of them really look at me. Notice what expression I have on my face. Ask what I’m thinking. What I’m missing. Why I came here and if I want to leave. If I miss my home. If I even
have
a true home at all.

These aren’t the questions of small talk. I know that. But I feel like they want to worship at my altar. And there’s nothing I want less.

What I want is connection.

I walk into the low-lit lecture hall where I first saw her, my head ducked, and slide into a stiff plastic seat directly behind Lydia. The class is thinned out tonight, which is a shame. Sanjay Petura is one of the finest philosophy lecturers I’ve ever had the pleasure to hear speak. Tonight, he’s gesticulating passionately while he breaks down the simpler components of
moksha
, the Jainist realization of the soul’s true nature.

“...the dual aspects are reflected. And this is a good thing! A very good thing. Rather than a single strict doctrine that binds one to a predetermined set of steps, Dvaita traditions allow every soul to encounter liberation in its own beautiful way. Each soul requires its own unique level of satisfaction to reach
moksha
. So let’s go back to what we discussed in the last lecture…”

Sanjay throws another slide up on the projector screen and begins to make a chart with key points of metaphysics alongside core Buddhist teachings.

The girl with the big, white teeth who sits next to Lydia—Susannah? I know she introduced herself and invited me to her parents’ pretentious party after last class—is scrolling through her Facebook status on her phone. Lydia is scribbling notes so fast, the side of her hand pulls through the ink and leaves dragging blue marks on the notebook paper.

Sanjay’s excitement echoes around the classroom, energizing some, going right through others. I would absolutely have expected Lydia to have been one of the students absorbing every word. I wonder what she thinks of this lecture.

I wonder if I can convince her to discuss it with me over some
rogan josh
at the little Indian place with the bright red walls and flickering candles on every table.

I ask the girl sitting next to me if I can borrow a sheet of paper and a pencil. Her smile is overeager until she peeks at my sketch when I’m a few minutes in and realizes I’m not drawing her. She pouts and leans back over her notebook, and I focus on getting the slope of Lydia’s neck just right. I wear the eraser down shading the perfect approximation of the light pieces in her hair. She tucks a strand back, and I have time to examine the delicate whorls of her ear and the shape of her lobe.

Before I know it, Sanjay’s voice stops with an abrupt last note on Vishnu and the lights come up. I squint at their brightness and watch as she stands.

And I startle.

Mierda.

I was picturing her all wrong.

Her features are more delicate and symmetrically beautiful than I remembered. Her eyes are tilted up at the sides slightly, and framed in thick, silky lashes. Her mouth is fuller and deeper pink than I remembered. There are dozens of tiny details I didn’t get quite right.

What I need is some studio time with her.

I decide that before I ask her if she’ll get naked and pose so I can paint her, I’ll gather my courage and attempt dinner. I know I may get shot down again, but I’m willing to keep trying. Something about her tells me I won’t be able to rest until I get her to agree to at least one date.

Something about her also tells me that there’s no way in hell one date is going to be anywhere near enough.

I follow—not too closely—as she and the other students leave the lecture hall. When her friend finally leaves her side, I jog to catch up and stand next to her.

“Lydia.”

She jumps and clutches a hand to her heart. I notice her eyes dart left and right, checking to make sure there are other people around before she looks at me under the brim of my cap.