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I’ve been going around and around, back and forth, warring between my head and my heart all this time. And just when I think I’ve made a decision, the scales tip again. Because Nero moves them, through sheer force of his will.
I know I can’t go on like this much longer. I know that soon, I’ll have to make the final choice.
But which of my instincts will win out?
After class is over,I pack up my supplies. The student beside me, Chris, screws his paper into a ball and tosses it in the trash as we leave the classroom.
“Why did you do that?” I protest. “It was looking great.”
“It was a mess,” he corrects me, laughing good-naturedly. “And I’m a perfectionist. If it’s not how I picture it, I tear the whole thing up and start again.”
“What would our teachers say?” I tease. “It’s the process. The art of failure.”
“Ah yes, the one discipline I have learned,” he jokes, and I laugh.
“Come on. Literally every artist in history has created crappy first drafts. Even Monet,” I add. “All those sketches of the waterlilies? You would never have guessed they’d turn into a masterpiece, one day.”
“So you’re a Monet girl,” he remarks, as we walk out of the building and into the bright sunlight. “I should have guessed.”
“Is that predictable?”
“No.” he smiles. “I love him, too. But I think my favorite would have to Renoir, though. His work had a lot of influence on the development of Impressionist style.”
“Yes! And have you seen some of his later works?” I ask. “He was so talented at capturing feminine beauty. Grandes Baigneuses or Girls at the Piano… They are amazing.”
“I saw Grandes Baigneuses in person at the Philadelphia Museum of Art a few years ago.”
I gasp. “Okay, I’m officially jealous.”
He smiles. “Every time I visit a new city, I always go to as many museums as I can. There’s nothing I’d rather do. My girlfriend gets so bored, I drag her around every gallery in town.”
I’m laughing when I catch sight of Nero, across the quad. He’s walking fast towards us, glaring. Chris tenses up beside me, and I don’t blame him. Nero is an imposing man at the best of times.
And from the look on his face, now is not a good time.
“Nero, hi,” I say, confused. “What are you doing here? Is something wrong?”
I’m worried there’s been a new development, some reason he came to collect me in person. But Nero’s focus is entirely on Chris.
“Does a husband need a reason to come meet his wife?” Nero drapes his arm around my shoulder in a possessive gesture. He’s marking his territory, caveman-style.
Chris shifts his weight uncomfortably from one foot to the other. “Well, I guess I’ll go,” he says.
“You do that,” Nero says rudely.
“See you in class!” I add with a smile, trying to make up for Nero’s caveman routine.
“Let’s go,” he snaps, practically dragging me away. He stalks toward the parking lot at a fast pace, and I have to almost jog to keep up with his long stride.
He opens the passenger door of his car. “Get in.”
I do as he says, not wanting to have a fight here in the parking lot for everyone to see. I’ve been embarrassed enough today already. But all bets are off as Nero gets in behind the wheel and starts to drive us home.
“What the hell was that all about?” I finally explode.
“I could ask you the same question,” Nero growls out, leaning on the horn. “Are you seeing someone else, like art boy back there?”
My jaw drops. Is he out of his mind? Since when would I even have time to see anybody else, even if I wanted to?
