If I Stay (10 page)

I was glad that Brandon didn't sneak in the observation that I, in fact, was no good at math in any way, shape, or form.

“But it's all enough to make me feel rather ill. Let's not even get into the amount of debt that I'll be facing upon graduation – or that, alongside my roommate – I'm facing now in the form of bills like rent and electricity and groceries.”

“Pizza,” Brandon gave a quick thumbs up. The room laughed.

“Pizza. That's about right.” I smiled lightly. “But beyond that, I've been forced to acknowledge that life is fluid. You don't always get what you want, and even if you do, there's no permanence in this game – even forever in life-terms is temporary. Things fall apart, and fade, and when these things happen you just need to pick yourself up and start over,” I took a moment, sneaking another breath. “My last relationship, for instance, which lasted for three years is now over. Which hurt, yeah. Sometimes it still hurts. Not so much because I'm still into him, but because everything I had been accustomed to was so abruptly torn away and the prospect of starting over is, well, enough to make me feel ill. And while it's enlightening to think about what might really make me happy right now. Right now, at this very moment, as I'm writing this – or reading, I suppose – I'm also ill over the fact that the ending of the relationship had managed to bring to light the fact that everything is constantly moving. I won't be here in the next coming months, safe and comfortable at this desk and surrounded by friendly, knowing faces. I'll be out in the Real World, trying my best to use my degree for something, anything. Or maybe I'll go onto Grad School and figure out something more logical.”

I could feel the stillness in the room, maybe even more-so than when Sacha had spoken. And I thought to myself, as I started to finish what I'd written:
the amount of depth that was put into this writing assignment is sort of insane
.

“And to cap this off, I'm ill because I know that these warm and welcomed faces will eventually be replaced with strangers. And that we'll need to create new familiar faces with these strangers so that they can become familiar people. But what makes me ill when considering this, Professor Lawson...”

His eyes lit up again, his lips parting lightly. His hands rested on his knees, and I swear, I saw his fingers tighten just a little.

“Sometimes the people that interest us the most, these strangers that come about when we least expect it and thrill us and shake and move us in ways we've never been moved before. The people that we wish could become familiar faces, I suppose. We can't always let them in. We can't always let them stay.”

I sat down, feeling weighty and ready for class to be over. I thought about the fact that Ben's book was still sitting in my bag, and that Ben didn't really avert his eyes from me even as he picked out the last few students to read what they'd written. When he finally dismissed us, Brandon gave me a long, crooked look and said:

“I'm starting to do that thing where I worry about your emotional well-being.”

“Don't worry,” I assured him. “Really. Writing always makes people seem more serious than they intended to sound.”

“Or depressed.”

“I'm
not
depressed,” I promised. “Just pensive.”

Brandon remained unconvinced, squinting and staring until I finally moved him with the promise of inviting a few friends over after work so that we could do typical college-aged things and get into the swing of having fun and being otherwise
normal
.

Which, of course, turned me to Sacha.

“Come over later? I have to work until eight, but maybe after?” I asked after Brandon had left and Sacha had waited around. He picked up his bag, still looking a little uneasy.

“Of course,” he said. “I'll bring dinner over.”

“Not pizza. Please,” I begged. “Something different.”

“Chinese, then. Even Brandon likes Chinese.”

“That would be incredible.”

Sacha eased up, the light finally surfacing back into his smile. I couldn't neglect what he'd mentioned in his writing shortly before, but I didn't want to press it now. It wasn't the right time. Particularly when Ben was still seated at his desk and sorting through the papers that we'd all handed back to him. I'm not sure why, either. He didn't plan on giving us a formal grade.

“I'll see you later,” I added. “I need to stick around and talk to Professor Lawson about his book.”

“Have fun with that,” Sacha grinned. “I'll see you later.”

I watched him walk out the door, happy that Darcy wasn't lingering today. Content that when I walked over to Ben's desk, it was only the two of us.

“Professor Lawson,” I said to him. He smiled wide, devious.

“Gemma,” he remarked. “What can I help you with?”

I slid the book out from my bag and placed it down on his desk.

“You wrote this.”

He took the book, flipping through the pages without really looking at them before setting it back down.

“You read it,” he said quietly. I nodded.

“Is it true what people are saying?” I asked. “That they're making a movie out of it.”

“Yes,” he answered. “The giants have already started filming, actually. Though I'm only aware of so many details, and even then things can get muddled.”

He stood, walking around his desk until he was standing in front of me. Looking up at him, I was forced into remembering just how tall he was; my head barely brushing against his shoulder. He leaned down, just barely, and I caught the scent of cologne that he'd worn the night at the bar. It was agony.

“It was beautiful. Incredible,” I said, choking. Then the words spilled out: “And I can't do this.”

“Do what?”

“Spend the entire semester pretending that nothing happened between you and I. It's driving me insane. It's all I think about.”

Ben was quiet, not saying anything as took a small breath, not moving closer and yet not backing up, either. It was almost infuriating.

“I almost dropped the class,” I continued. “But there you were, as if on cue, walking past me as I stood there in front of the door, and I just couldn't do it. I couldn't force myself to drop the class. To walk away from this.”

Reaching out, I ran my fingers down his tie, waiting for him to thrust my hands away. To yank back in revolt.

But again, he didn't move.

“I wish you weren't so interesting,” I said. “Sometimes I wish I didn't meet you that night at the bar.”

“Don't say that, Gemma,” he finally spoke. “I don't regret meeting you. Not at all.”

“Not even briefly?”

He looked serious, his hand reaching out to touch that spot on my neck at the very curve where his lips had brushed against.

“Not once,” he said. “And by the way, that boy is in love with you.”

“I don't want to talk about that.”

Ben sighed, and I saw the jealousy flicker up in his expression like a sparkler. Like a lit match. I turned to the door, which was closed, and for a moment listened for the sound of footsteps outside in the halls. Silence.

I didn't wait. I couldn't wait. I grabbed his tie, pulled him down, and kissed him. His lips met mine frantically, feverishly, his hands drawing me closer as they slid around my lower back and pressed me against his hips. His free hand ran through my hair, pulling my head gently to the side as his mouth grazed over the slope of my throat, stopping right above my chest. His breathing was heavy, heady. When he looked at me, I could see the want in his primal gaze.

“You have no idea how mad you drive me,” he muttered, scooping me up in his arms and setting me down on his desk. He kissed me again, taking total control, his tongue moving
delicately with mine as his fingers found their way beneath the layers that covered my frame from the biting cold.

“God,” he murmured, his breath hot against my ear. “Gemma.”

He repeated my name softly, running his tongue down my neck where he ended with a small, warm kiss.

“We can't keep doing this,” he said quietly as he drew away – by force, no doubt. I knew, staring at his swollen lips and hearing his steady, shallow breath that he would have taken me right there on the desk if it weren't for the risk. “At least,
this
.”

“I know,” I said. And I did. Of course I did. But still, looking at him, there was not once ounce of sorry in his tone. “But we can still look, right?”

“Nothing wrong with a healthy fantasy,” he smiled smugly. “At least, for now.”

I grabbed my bag, so tempted to kiss him again. But I didn't, if only because I knew he would soon have another classroom of students, and the last thing he needed was to look entirely flustered.

“And by the way, Gemma,” he said quietly as I reached the door. “He
is
in love with you.”

I nodded, slinging my bag over my shoulder. Ben didn't drop his gaze.

“Farewell for now, professor.”

TEN

I walked down the hallway with my headphones on, feeling like every person that passed me in the halls knew that I'd just kissed Ben – or as many knew him, Professor Lawson. As I skirted around the corner, the bright light that poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows was deceptively warm, and Metric soundtracked my brief stroll from Room 204 to the art room, where some of my work was stored for the big Celebration of Arts presentation at the end of the semester. I had
Collect Call
on repeat, thinking a little about how so much mainstream music these days didn't have quite the same emotion to it as some of their independent counterparts. Sure, I still loved Radio Pop. And Brandon was always quick to rip someone down who felt that they were
above
one of his favorite artists – Justin Bieber included.

Still. It was nice listening to Emily Haines as I glanced around the walls, feeling almost like it wasn't real life as much as it were a film or something centered around The Life of Gemma Davies. Everyone that passed me was merely an extra, and the window light that shone through the glass wasn't real – it was fabricated. Even the hallway that I walked down, one foot in front of the other, was really just surrounded by walls that when torn down led to nothing but a set. With cameras, directors, trailers.

This wasn't real. These things didn't happen in real life.

I sighed, stopping at one of the walls and plucking the earbuds from my ears. In front of me hung a series of photos that Sacha had taken. Black and white, blown up photographs of random people doing typical things. Talking, laughing, all looking in directions other than the camera. One of them was Brandon, and the last in the line of photos was of me. I was sitting in the quad, on the bench, with my hood pulled up to cover my ears and most my hair. He'd edited it so that it was gray-scale, shadowed, and looked much darker than I'd actually felt. It was one of many random students’ favorite photographs, and perhaps the only downfall was that there had become this tendency to ask me from time to time if I was a generally sad person. Which was sometimes annoying, but worth it for my small piece of fame on the walls of the Fine Arts building.

Either way, there was no denying his talent.

I turned to walk towards the studio when my phone starting buzzing. I pulled it out, watching as the name on the screen flew across brightly, and after the third ring decided to pick up.

“Hey, mom.” I said casually. The next words were almost automatic: “Is everything alright?”

“Everything's fine,” she replied. “It's just that you haven't called in awhile, and your father and I have been wondering how you are.”

“I'm great,” I told her. Which wasn't entirely true, but still far from a lie. “Just heading down to the studio to do some work before...well, before work.”

“How is work going?” she sounded worried. Granted, she was always worried about the bills getting paid. She was even more worried over the fact that she couldn't help. “How's Brandon?”

“Work is work. Brandon's still Brandon,” I smiled, glancing out the window where the sun had moved behind a few gauzy-looking clouds. “We're getting by. I really can't complain.”

“I just worry, Gemma,” she finally said it. “I know you're independent, and I know you're capable of taking care of yourself. But Brandon's family does well, don't they? Do they ever offer to help?”

“You know that wouldn't change anything,” I told her. And it was very true. Brandon, for all his immature moments, refused anything his parents offered him in the form of cash (except for birthdays, obviously, he'd say with a grin) and was keen on making his own way. “He'd never accept a handout.”

“He's too proud,” my mom said. I shook my head.

“We're just trying to do this in a way where we're...I don't know. Ready for the real world. The real world doesn't always give handouts.”

“You sound melancholy, honey,” her voice was soft. “Is everything really alright?”

“It's fine. I promise you that,” I said. “Things really are fine. It's just cold today. I'm tired.”

“Have you been eating enough? Pizza and Ramen doesn't count as a meal, you know.”

I scuffed my sneakers against the tile, stalling for a few seconds.

“I'm not starving,” I mumbled. “How's dad?”

“He's fine. He's out in the garage trying to organize his tools.”

As I reached the door to the studio, I felt that pang of happiness that always came about when I found it to be empty. I don't know what it was exactly about having others in the room, but I didn't like it. I really was a very solitary artist.

“We miss you,” she continued. “You should come home soon.”

“I will. I promise,” I said. “I need to go, but I love you. I love you times a million.”

I could practically see her face light up, even if it was only temporary. My mother, truly, she was such a wonderful woman. Even if her constant questions did wear on my nerves.

“I love you too, Gemma. Please promise me that you'll eat something substantial today. You sound malnourished.”

“I will. I swear. Goodbye, mom.”

It was hard to hang up on her, but I did. I had to. The thing about talking to my mother was that even though I adored her to the core of my heart, talking to her was sometimes exhausting. Struggle does that, I think. It wears on you to the point that you can hear it someone's voice, and it slips into conversations like a leeching parasite. I could hear the weariness in my mother's tone whenever she spoke, and that was hard.

I guess the truth about it was, I was slowly acknowledging that both she and my father were getting older. Their lives, their struggles, would likely continue. But me? Mine were temporary. And even if they weren't, I was still young enough to hope.

Pushing the door open, I was greeted with the familiar smell of paint and clay, all mixed together in that same nostalgic scent that conjures up memories of clay pots (or in most cases, ash trays) and hours spent painting flowers. I walked over to the farthest back wall, where some of my artwork was pinned up on a giant corkboard.

Crossing my arms, my eyes swam over the drawings one by one, scrutinizing even though I knew that everyone else had only wonderful things to say. I'd use some of them for my the big presentation, most likely. Though for the event I was still in need of something bigger, better. Something worth showing that would make people remember my name after they left.

One drawing was of Toby, all realistic and sketched in pencil. It was during the month before our breakup, and he had been eating ice cream out of this giant mixing bowl. I drew him with the bowl balanced between his legs as he sat Indian Style, a giant smirk on his face. His auburn hair swept over two azure-blue eyes.

I sighed a little, forcing myself away. Walking over to the supplies closet, I grabbed a sheet of paper and clipped it to one of the easels, selecting a pencil from the box. Cheap pencils, really. But they would do.

And for a little while, I just stood there, basking in the chilled air and outside sounds of passerbies walking the halls, scant laughter and footsteps. I wasn't quite sure what I wanted to draw, or if I could even really touch the pencil to the piece of paper without going insane. Not because of the art as much as the million different thoughts that were practically suffocating me.
Slightly dramatic, perhaps. But true in one way or another. In some way or another.

Only minutes before, I'd kissed Ben. But not just Ben the Stranger, Ben the Poet, Ben the Eloquent. He was Ben the Professor – Ben the Authority Figure. I'd been on his desk, his arms around me, his lips on my neck. And God, did it feel good. More than good. It was unworldly.

It's remarkable, really, how one person can make you feel as if you transcend the safe confines of your own body. That flesh, bones, brains and organs and all the other fibers that make us up. Whenever he looked at me, it struck a chord that I'd never had played before, by anyone. Not even Toby. Which is what was so remarkable, unbelievable, and maybe even borderline insane. Ben had something inside of him that shifted me, an effect that I just couldn't shake. Like the strongest drug, he tore through me like a hurricane. All it too was a single look.

I started sketching the outline of his face, faint and fine with the pencil tip. As the images of him started falling, like snowflakes: Ben's fingers against the nape of my neck, gentle and hot. The way the corner of his lips twitched into that devious grin. How is eyes had widened when his fingers slid inside of me, how our noses touched and mouths parted. His kiss, always soft, always hungry.

It was like he felt the need to hold back. It was like he felt he could break me. Which given how he staggered over my small frame, I suppose he could.

Closing my eyes, I paused, nearly dropping the pencil as I leaned against the easel. My face was hot, my body craving. And as always, he was so close and yet so far. I pictured him standing in front of his next class, going through the students as they too read about their chosen words and why they'd picked them. I wondered if they had the same strange, heavy depth that the lot of us had exposed when confessing our feelings. I wondered what Ben felt when I'd read my own work and his eyes didn't shift an inch.

I wanted him here. Right here, right in the studio. I wanted to undress him slowly, undoing each button carefully, and draw him without his shirt on. His long limbs and torso so defined and perfect even with the scant little marks. I wanted to run my fingers over his lips, biting them in a way that when they started to swell...I wanted to draw that, too.

I wanted all of him. I wanted every part of him.

I wanted too much.

Touching the pencil back against the grainy paper, I sighed heavily. Then I drew away, looking at my unfinished piece and realizing that today wasn't really a work day. It was more of a dreamy kind of day. A wishful kind of day.

Gathering my things, I quickly checked my phone and groaned when realizing that I still had two hours before my shift started. Two hours that I didn't feel like spending drawing, or eating, or anything else. What could I do? Laps around the halls, maybe. I could change into my uniform, which was really just a shirt with the store logo on the inside tag. That would buy some time.

Throwing my bag over my shoulder, I took my sweet time walking over to the bathroom while running my fingers over the cement blocks that lined the walls. I couldn’t imagine just how many other hands had done the same thing, and others like Sacha would likely make some remark about the germs, and how dirty the walls were. But I liked the feeling of the blocks, and the way it felt against my fingers.

Happily, the bathroom appeared to be empty as well. I changed in one of the stalls, pulling the mildly wrinkled plum-colored polo over my head and trying my best to smooth it out. The dark color contrasted in a way that I felt looked nice with my relatively fair skin. Taking a deep breath, I emerged from the stall and splashed some cold water on my face, wiping the hair from my eyes that in the garish florescence appeared almost rusty in its red color. Not vibrant with the hints of blonde that so many loved to run their hands through. Which was sometimes annoying, but I allowed it.

Mom's right
, I thought.
I do look tired
.

As I touched my fingers to my temples, concerned with whether or not the heaviness under my eyes was real or imagined, the bathroom door opened and Darcy entered, immediately pouting her lips.

“Hey,” she said, walking over to the sink and running her hands through the bleached crop of chemical-cut hair. “No class?”

“Nope,” I answered, not wanting to look at her. I stayed fixed on my reflection. “Just getting ready for work. You?”

“Just a break.” she said mildly, and I eventually decided that I
had
to look at her. The last thing I needed was her thinking that I really did hate her in the obvious and not secret sort of way. “So that piece you read in class. It was good.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I tried.”

Her eyes narrowed just slightly. Hazel and covered in thick black liner that reminded me of those makeup commercials where the models always looked so starved. Their eyes like skull sockets.

“He looks at you differently,” she said quietly, looking down at her feet. Combat boots. Of course.

“Who?” I asked.

“You know who,” she said, sounding almost cold. “Professor Lawson.”

“Really?” I had to exit this conversation immediately.
Abort
, my mind was screaming.
Abort
. But I also knew that I had to say something, and that there was no way to walk out of this conversation. The answer? Play dumb. Convincingly dumb. “I don't really pay much mind to him.”

“Oh? You've stayed after class twice.” Darcy appeared entirely unconvinced.

“You're not the only one who's read his book,” I spat, hating feeling cornered and wanting nothing more than to run. “Listen, he's our professor. It's obviously nothing, Darcy.”

I gave her my best attempt at a sincere,
do you really think I'm that kind of person
(question mark) look. Her eyes widened, and even though she'd never say the words out loud, I knew that I'd won her over. She believed me.