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“My cousin is here tonight,” she continues. “He wants to meet you.”
“Oh… Of course. I’d be happy to meet him.” Like I have a choice.
Lizzie beckons to the very same young man who so eagerly taped my position—and groped me shamelessly on the podium. “Tristan, meet Nate. He works at an accounting firm uptown, but in his secret life, he’s a painter.”
“Being an artist is not such a dreadful secret,” I reply with a patient smile. Nate is an extremely tall, reed-thin, gaunt-cheeked guy in a too-small button-down shirt with a checkered bow tie high on his skinny neck and a pocket protector stuffed with pens. The classic nerd costume, though Nate wears it a little bit too well. I’d never guess he’s a relation of the curvy and free-spirited Lizzie. “It’s nice to meet you, Nate.”
He gazes at me with a dreamy expression I’ve seen many times before on both men and women. “You are… well, Tristan, you are just so incredibly beautiful.”
“Uh, thank you.” Awk-ward…
“Head to toe and every… single… thing… in between, Tristan. Perfection.” He giggles, as if I could possibly have missed his reference to my nudity. “I’m sincerely honored to have the opportunity to paint you.”
Lizzie beams at us—the triumphant matchmaker—while Nate frosts the cake of awkwardness with his heavy chin drool. Ugh.
“I’m also honored, you know, to have you paint me.” I need to get to the bathroom. And to suck down this entire glass of wine. But mostly, I need to escape from Nate the handsy number cruncher. “Enjoy the rest of class, Nate.”
“Wait—wait, Tristan.” He snatches the sleeve of my robe, and it slips off my shoulder. “I thought maybe I could take you out for something to eat after class.” Tiny beads of perspiration appear above his narrow upper lip.
“I’m not… so sure… I can.” But I am sure I can’t afford to lose this regular gig by pissing off Lizzie. What to do… I’m so very not interested in breaking bread with Nate.
“I’m sorry, Tristan isn’t available after class—he’ll be sharing a late dinner with me.”
I recognize the annoyingly confident, sexily raspy voice. Remi steps in, once again, to save the day. At first, relief sweeps over me, but I soon think better of it. Who is he to claim my time? Remi hasn’t had the good grace to check in once this week—and I don’t play nice with fickle people.
“Sorry, guys, I have to get right home after class—my nephews are expecting me. We have an appointment at the kitchen table to plan our trick-or-treating route.” A good excuse that happens to also be true. “Please excuse me, I only have a few minutes left to use the restroom.”
I step out from between Remi, Nate, and Lizzie, hesitating only long enough to gulp down half the glass of wine. Once I’m in the hallway, I guzzle the rest and head to the men’s room.
When I come out, Remi is leaning on the wall beside the door.
“Let me drive you home,” he says.
“Aren’t you drinking?” I ask.
“I had one glass of wine. I’m fine to drive.”
“Well, I’m fine with public transportation.” I tighten my robe and start down the hall toward the classroom.
“What’s wrong, Tristan?” he asks from a few paces behind me. “You seem angry.”
“On Tuesday morning, I called to thank you for coaching Jared’s game. And to see what you were up to this week. I left a message—never heard boo from you.”
Boo—I’m a total Halloween riot.
I refuse to stop walking or to even glance over my shoulder at him. Sure, my pride is hurt, but it’s more than that—I thought we were breaking through each other’s walls. I now suspect Remi’s walls are far too well-fortified for that to ever happen. A warning bell sounds in my head.
“Well, I’m here now. We can grab some food, and then I’ll drive you home. I can help you, Jared, and Tommy map out your trick-or-treating journey.”
I stop just outside the classroom door, finally turning to look at him. Remi’s eyes are wide and glassy. He bites his bottom lip, and his hands swing by his side. Not exactly the picture of a cartoon villain, but also not someone I can afford to let into my life. “No, thank you.”
It’s hard to speak these words, because I want the same stuff he says he wants. But I refuse to set myself up for heartbreak. “Hope your painting turns out exactly how you want it.”
