I was not up to another night of artistic debauchery, not after the excesses of the previous evening. But I still wanted to support Aubrey, as it became apparent that she was very nervous about bringing up the idea of spending time out of her fellowship to attend school.

As I expected, Madge was all for the idea. As it turned out, Gerald was an alumnus, and Anthony was on the Board of Trustees. They confidently expected that they could make a transfer happen before the new semester started in September.

I took an early leave, but Madge caught me before I had ascended for more than a flight. “Thank you,” she said, squeezing my arm. “I had hoped that you and Aubrey would find something in common. She’s so young, and so unsure of herself. It was good of you to give her some confidence.” Madge cleared her throat. “Could you keep an eye on her? Make sure she’s happy with the new arrangements, once they come through?”

“Of course! For that matter, I’d spend time with her just because she’s an awesome person that I like being around.” The promise came quickly, and I think I meant it when I said it, but my gut dropped out when I realized how short a time I would be staying. This week, maybe next week, and I would be gone. Well, hopefully Aubrey would be all settled by then.

Some of what I was thinking must have passed over my face, because Madge gave my arm another squeeze. “You belong here too, you know.”

“I’ll feel better once I start pulling my weight,” I said glibly. Madge seemed to accept that, and she let me retire undisturbed.

The next week was one of the most creatively stimulating of my life. From dawn to dusk, I was free to pursue whatever endeavors I wished. Since I was new, I had not yet entered the rotation to work the gallery or demo space, but I shadowed some of the others as they participated. Gallery duty had the potential to be tedious, walking from room to room interacting with visitors.

I was partnered with Nicholas, though, and I loved listening to his stories about each piece, including those that the others had done. He seemed to know all about them, and his interest translated into sales. Darren sold a triptych of small paintings, and Josephine moved one of her smaller sculptures. Our take, in total, was $35,540.

Another day, Gerald and I shared one of the demo rooms and painted quick portraits of each other, in front of an ever-changing audience. He also told stories, not about art but about his apparently legendary past. If Gerald was to be believed, he has been Jimmy Carter’s ambassador to Andorra; a parachute instructor in Arizona; a ski bum in Nevada. His stories were always outrageous, full of sex, drugs, and drinking, and he usually implied that some famous historical figure was secretly gay.

The stories were endlessly entertaining, and I did not believe a word of them. But I pretended to accept them all at face value, and he rewarded me by calling me Cinnamon Bun, Cupcake, Pain au Chocolate, and once, Churrita. (The feminine diminutive, he explained, of churro.)

My painting of Gerald incorporated a few of the stories, turning out more like a caricature sketch, with exaggerated features and elements of his stories in the background. His image of me was more impressionistic, a woman with flaming red hair looking at herself in the mirror. My necklace, I observed with discomfort, was rendered in great detail, providing a focus for the piece. If he took notice of my strained reaction, he made no sign; instead, he was enraptured with the details I had included. He even texted Anthony to come look. Anthony, however, seemed to spend more time sneaking looks at Gerald’s portrait of me. I tucked the necklace surreptitiously into my clothes.

At another session, I held an impromptu painting lesson for Aubrey. She had determined to broaden her skills, so I loaned her a canvas and some acrylics. Despite some early frustrations, she did quite well. Her greatest challenge was an inability to “undo” a mistake, plus some awkwardness with color selection. Once I convinced her that the final product didn’t matter, that this was only an opportunity to have fun and try something new, she began to embrace her mistakes. The result was actually quite charming, full of errors that no experienced acrylics painter would ever make, but with shapes and blending executed with the skill of long practice. It was a schizophrenic blend of success and failure, and I immediately fell in love with it, claiming the canvas for my own when Aubrey threatened to “burn it with fire.”

Thursday afternoon I spent in the public workspace with Darren. He was still working on his sculpture, and I brought in one of my unfinished paintings to make some progress. I was still finishing the photorealistic section, which took a great deal of concentration, fine brushwork, and occasional swearing.

Perhaps that was why I did not immediately notice how often Darren was looking up at me over his sculpture’s shoulder. Even after I did, I figured it had more to do with my outbursts of profanity. He certainly couldn’t find much to engage him in my oversized smock, or the smears of paint streaking up my arms, dabbed on my cheek, and even splattered on my bare feet.

“It’ll be dinner soon. Tonight is Josephine’s turn to cook,” said Darren, breaking into the silence.

I glanced at my watch. The gallery had closed to the public fifteen minutes before. No wonder we were alone in the workspace. “Ooooh, does that mean fancy French food?”

He laughed. “Nope. Takeout Chinese is the most common, but sometimes she orders pizza.”

“Ah, quelle élégance,” I opined.

Darren chuckled, and replaced the protective covering on his sculpt. “Hey, I wanted to ask you,” he said, and I looked up from my work. “Tomorrow is the usual Friday night ceilidh at Flanagan’s, and I’ll be doing a set. I was wondering if maybe you wanted to come out?”

“Ceilidh, huh? If they call it that, how could I refuse?” I sent him a broad smile.

“It’s an open invitation, too. We do it every week. I think Aubrey is coming out too.”

My smile flickered for a moment, but I kept it in place. “Yeah, that’ll be fun.”

“Cool. Cool.” He stepped to the door. “You coming?”

“Just wanted to finish this up. I’ll be along in a minute.” I waited until I was alone, and began to pack up my things. Stupid, for me to think that he was inviting me personally. It wasn’t like I even wanted a date right now, much less a date with a man. But it had been flattering, and then sort of unflattering, and I was still dealing with the whiplash.

But really, wasn’t it safer this way? The last thing I needed was for Darren to fall in love with me, especially since I would be leaving soon. It was easy to forget that real life was still out there, and that I would have to return to it soon. I had to decide pretty soon whether to leave this Sunday, or to stay out another week, and risk Janice’s ire further.

All the more reason to go out and enjoy myself while I could, though. And it would be fun to hang out with Aubrey. Otherwise, I’d be all on my own while Darren was on stage. This way, we could sit together and enjoy the music. And I wouldn’t have to worry about Darren developing inconvenient feelings for me.

I had just about finished up, and I scanned the room to see if I had left anything behind. The bulk of the sculpture dominated the center of the room, and I realized that I had actually seen very little of it. The head, for example, was facing away from me, and I had never gone around to see what it looked like.

The room was empty; the hall outside, silent. I set down my supplies and walked around to the front of the statue. Slowly, I pulled down the covering. The face was familiar. But where had I...

Oh.

It was my face. The one I wore now, Cayley’s face. He must have been using me as a model all day. Carefully, being certain not to leave so much as a smudge mark, I restored the covering as it had been.

It might be too late to avoid inconvenient feelings. Not on Darren’s side—chances are, I was just a convenient reference he was using as he worked. No, the danger was from within. The sight of my face, painstakingly wrought out of clay by his gentle, clever hands, gave me an unfamiliar fluttery feeling in my stomach.

I would leave on Sunday, I decided. It was long past time that I went back to my regular life, and even more importantly, my regular body. That was the surest way to divest myself of these uncomfortable urges, so out of place to a man like me.

And so I adjusted my bra strap and stepped into my heels, fixing my ponytail as I descended the stairs to primp a bit before dinner.