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I wrench open the door of my truck. Get in. Toss the ticket onto the floor of the passenger seat. Sit there, for a minute, just breathing hot air. I know it’s useless to get worked up like this. Getting pissed off doesn’t solve anything. But I’m powerless to stop it.
My truck rumbles to life as I turn the key in the ignition, but I don’t shift the transmission into drive yet. I don’t have a clue where to go. Hell, maybe I’ll just drive around for a while and that’ll help clear my head.
On the other hand, I could easily get myself lost.
Thereisone place I know how to get myself to. My old stomping grounds. The university campus is east of here, and it’s big enough that as long as I keep driving in that direction, I’ll eventually run into it.
All right. Fine. Campus it is.
I shift into drive and pull out of the parking spot. Start heading east, block by block. The drive isn’t exactly enjoyable, but it’s better than staring at the ceiling for hours on end.
Who knows. Maybe I’ll even grab some flowers or something for Sasha on my way back.
It takes twenty minutes to get there, but I finally start to see signs pointing to the university campus, and when I see the familiar ironwork framing the main entrance, I can’t help the nostalgic twinge in my chest. All these years, and the place still looks just as I remember it.
I turn into the entrance and follow the curving road as it winds through campus. It’s not my plan to pull into one of the parking garages, yet I do. Then I’m on foot, walking around a place I haven’t been for twenty years, soaking it all in again. I don’t know if it’s the time of day or the day of the week or what, but it’s surprisingly quieter than I was expecting. There are some students walking around, but mostly it’s just peaceful.
Without thinking much about it, my feet take me over to the art building. Some work has been done to repair the brickwork, but it’s still the building I know and used to call home. For a second, as I’m standing in front of it, I feel like that young kid again, a bag of art supplies slung over my shoulder and my fourth cup of terrible coffee surging in my veins, full of too much ego and—
“Alden?”
My gaze drops to a woman standing in front of me. She’s dressed in a long linen top and loose pants, and her face has aged, but I recognized her instantly: Carla Graham, one of my old professors.
My favorite one, in fact.
“Is that you?” she says, stepping closer, squinting up at me. “My God. It is.”
“Hello, Carla.”
Her face brightens at my greeting, and she clasps her wrinkled hands together with joy. I notice she’s still wearing an eclectic mix of rings on her fingers like she always used to. She used to joke in class that she wore one ring for every man who fell in love with her. She was full of stories like that, and her paintings were full of fantastical cryptic messages, too. I’ve always admired the way Carla perceives and plays with color. It’s like she’s able to see things nobody else does.
“How lovely to bump into you,” she says, beaming at me. “I was just coming back from a late lunch. Do you have time to chat?”
I nod. “Sure. That’d be nice.”
Carla leads the way to her office in the basement of the art building, pointing out student work hanging on the walls along the way, updating me about what other professors are still teaching and which aren’t there anymore, and explaining how all of the art programs went through a big overhaul a few years back. As we approach her office, she jingles a ring of keys out of her pocket, and her door creaks loudly as she pushes it open.
“Goodness, that’s bad today,” she says, shaking her head. “Just a moment, hon. Let me clear a space for you to sit.”
There are few surfaces in Carla’s office that aren’t decorated or piled with things. Her walls are covered with artwork collected from her travels, and multiple bookshelves are crammed full with small sculptures, books, and journals. An ancient-looking lamp perched on a stack of papers casts dull warm light across the room. Her desk, too, is covered and crowded with things. So is the wooden chair next to the desk, but she whisks away the folders stacked on it and pats the seat in a gesture for me to sit. The chair looks like it might break under my weight, but when I lower myself onto it, it’s sturdier than it appears.
“These your kids?” I ask, picking up a framed photo from her desk. In it, Carla has her arms around a young man and woman who look like they’re in their mid-twenties. I remember her mentioning her two young children back in the day, so the timeline would match up.
“Mmhmm. That’s Flora and Lou. The three of us went to Argentina together last year. Absolutely gorgeous country,” Carla says as she measures out some loose leaf tea into a pot. Behind her, an electric kettle is already starting to steam. “Things didn’t work out with their dad, but to hell with him. He had bad energy, anyway. I did the worst work of my life when we were together.”
I set the photo down. “You’re still painting, I hope?”
“Of course! I’ll paint until the day I die.” She sets two wobbly ceramic teacups on the desk between us, then halts. “Are you in a slump right now, Alden? Is that why you’re here?”
“No. The work’s going fine.”
Carla breathes a sigh of relief. She swivels around to lift the kettle from its base. A cloud of steam rises as she fills the teapot, and after replacing the kettle, she finally settles into the rolling chair across from me. “I’ve been following your career over the years, of course. I’m beyond proud of you, hon.”
I’m not a sentimental guy, but it means a lot to me, hearing her say that. “Thanks, Carla.”
“It’s wonderful that you’ve had as much success as you have,” she says. “But I want to know how you’vereallybeen.”
I should’ve known this was coming. You can’t sit down across from Carla Graham without her sensing the thing that’s truly nagging at you, no matter how hard you might try to hide it. Do I really want to get into my personal business with my old professor? Not especially. But, hell, I’m here.
