Abby
“What is your muse, Brant?”
“Not what, who.”
“Who is it, then?”
“Her.”
“The girl on your paintings?”
“Yes.”
It’s been 2 months 9 days since I last saw him, last talked to him, last touched him. And since then, there is nothing I let myself do about him but read these interviews he is given. These are my guilty pleasures and my most intense torture.
I miss him.
I miss him every fucking day.
And yes, I’ve started cursing. I’ve become bitter, because I’m so angry at him, so hurt by him, but I still want him.
I cut the interview from the art magazine and pin it to my board. I haven’t made amends with the way he used me for his success, but if I ignore that pain for a second I’m so proud of him.
My hand moves on its own, tracing his face on the photo they put next to the interview. He looks tired, rougher, and raw. His strong jaw I liked tracing with my tongue is now covered by beard. As he looks at the camera there’s no light in those eyes, they’re almost as empty as I feel.
Why am I feeling this way over him?
Why does he have this kind of effect on me?
Why can’t I just forget about him and continue with my life?
I know the answer in the back of my mind, but I don’t acknowledge it.
Sighing, I start getting ready to go to school. There’s excitement trying to bloom inside me but I push it down. He won’t come to school anymore. He hasn’t come for months, not after I told him off with that fake coldness I’ve mastered.
We ended, before we began. And for him, I don’t even think I was more than a tool to get his inspiration back, a muse.
“They say you’re looking for a muse, Brant. Is it true?”
“No. I’m not looking for a muse. I’m looking for her. My muse.”
“Are we talking about a certain woman? A real woman you know?”
“Yes.”
“Where is she?”
“So close but so far away…”
“Oh… I feel there’s a story behind this.”
“There is. A story of my massive fuck-up.”
3 months 10 days has passed since his massive fuck-up, as he calls it, but he still calls me his muse.
Have I ever been more to him?
Has he ever cared about me being more than his muse?
Were all his concerned acts just an act?
I should be angry at him for corrupting my privacy, for sharing me with whole world and I’d been angry… furious. But lately, as time passes I realize I’m focusing more on whether he was sincere with me.
Muse… this word makes me crazy.
What does it even mean?
Isn’t that a phase? A temporary passion an artist has and then throws the muse out like a used tissue?
I close my eyes when realization hits me.
I’m angry because I wanted to be permanent in his life.
I’m hurt because… can it be? Can this really be love?
I look at my board where his sad face looks back at me. If his look is any indication, he must be hurting just as much as me.
“Why did you do this to me, Brant?” I whisper to his photo.
And as I wait for an answer to come to me from his picture by some miracle, my phone rings.
An unknown number.
My heart beats faster as I reply. “Hello?”
“Is this Abby?”
Disappointment shows its ugly face when it’s not the voice I was been hoping to hear.
“Yes. And you are?”
“Leonardo House. I’m calling you about the tutoring you do. A friend of mine recommended you.”
His name doesn’t sound familiar. “Who’s your friend?”
“Umm… Levi.”
“Oh… okay. Are you one of his team mates?”
“Umm, yeah. Sure, yeah I am.”
“So what do you need?”
“Do you mind if we meet up in 30 minutes so we can talk about the details. I’m kinda sweaty after practice and this phone will get covered in germs.”
I chuckle at him. A guy who’s worried about germs. I may get along with him.
“Sure. Where?”
“Campus library?”
“Okay, meet you in 30.”
I see him the moment I step into the library. Alex… Brant’s best friend.
I glare at him. They’ve played me… again.
Just as I’m about to turn on my heel and get out of here, he calls out. “Abby, stop. This is important.”
“I don’t want to hear anything about him,” I yell, but my feet stop without my permission and he catches me.
“Abby, look I know he fucked up, okay? He fucking knows it, too. But he’s… miserable.”
“He deserves to be.”
“Okay. Yes. But read this, first. And then I have something you should watch. If after all of this you still feel the same I won’t bother you ever again. And I’ll make sure he won’t either.”
I’m curious. I hate to admit it, but I’m a sucker for every bit of news about him.
Sighing, I walk to the closest chair and hold my palm up.
I see him punch the air before giving me a letter and then type something into his phone before handing it over as well. I shake my head at him. And unfolding the paper, I read.
My eyes well up with tears as I suck in every word he put on the paper. His words are the only thing that can stop the pain inside me. After wiping away a tear, I look up to Alex. “I’ll watch.”
He smiles at me sympathetically. He is actually cute under that big muscled body he has. And I kind of feel grateful to him for going through this much trouble for his friend. But as soon as I hit the play button I can’t focus on anything… but him. Coyer fucking Brant.