Page 105 of The Substitute Fiancée

“No. Slow things down.”

*

Saturday night, I finally find the courage to assess the damage.

I’ve been putting it off since yesterday, as if keeping my eyes closed might somehow change reality.

Of the seven finished canvases, none can be salvaged.

I stand there for a long time, looking at them one by one, desperately searching for something to save. But there’s nothing. The canvases are torn, irreparably lost.

Four months of work.

Four months of doubt, experimentation, sleepless nights, reduced to shreds.

Emelyne and Mara stay with me throughout the inspection. They don’t speak, out of respect.

My sketchbooks and watercolors, stored in my bedroom, were relatively spared. Of the eleven pieces that made up the beginning of my thesis, only four watercolors remain. It’s something, even if it’s not enough.

My chest tightens, but I refuse to linger on the destruction.

I carry the canvases down to the street and place them on the trash bins, one by one. I don’t look back.

When I return to my bedroom, my phone vibrates.

Alexander is calling.

I let it ring.

I don’t have the strength to talk. Not tonight. And when I shut myself in my room, Emelyne and Mara respect my need for solitude without asking questions.

A little later, I hear Alexander’s voice in the living room. He’s speaking quietly with the girls. Then nothing.

A notification appears on my screen.

Alexander: I wish I could have been with you, but I understand your need for solitude. Just know that I’m here.

A tear slips down my cheek as I grieve the loss of my work.

34. First Day Back

Samantha

It’s the first day back. My heart tightens as I head to class. Today, everything could tip one way or the other. In two weeks, the midyear review takes place, and I have nothing to present. Nothing but four watercolors and the painting I started at Alexander’s place and finished just yesterday. Nothing solid enough to convince the academic committee to let me graduate this year.

I arrive early to speak with Ms. Mainville. She’s a demanding, rigorous instructor, and we don’t always see eye to eye. She expects me to verbalize, to structure, to theorize.

I try. I’m learning.

I know that’s what’s expected of fifth-year students, but art—I don’t explain it. I live it.

Beauty, emotion—I feel them in my gut.

She’s already there, seated at her desk, a notebook open in front of her, glasses perched on the tip of her nose.

“Good morning, ma’am. Happy New Year.”

She looks up and smiles at me.