I’ve tried sitting with other people, but I get nervous and end up staring mutely at them as I gobble my sandwich, which only makes everyone uncomfortable. To look like I’m busy, I text Nick a few hearts to let him know I’m thinking about him.
You are my heart, Daisy, he texts back immediately.
I smile and touch the art I had tattooed over my breastbone for Christmas. It’s a drawing of a heart and his name in Cyrillic, and it’s as dark and elegant as my lover. I love it, and Nick loves to see it on my skin. I think it touched him more than when I proposed to him, which is funny to think about. A ring is an outward sign that you belong to someone, but the hidden tattoo under my clothes is just for him, and ten times more intimate. I smile and text him back. What are you drawing today?
A very fat man, Nick sends back. He is sweating profusely. His balls look like shriveled meatballs.
I giggle on my peanut butter and jelly. Nick is taking art classes, and he alternately loves—and hates—his Drawing from Life Models class. Nick enjoys drawing interesting people, not pretty ones, so this man should be right up his alley. But the sweat, I imagine, is difficult to capture. Have fun, I text back. Dinner tonight is meatballs!
Now my cock is shriveled at the thought. I must go, love. Duty calls.
XO, I send, since I cannot kiss him.
I wish I could be more like Nick. Nick doesn’t want or need friends. He looks at me strangely when I say the girls in class don’t like me. What can they possibly not like?, he asks. I cried over it once, but only once, because it distressed Nick so. To him, problems are solved at the business end of a gun, and if he can’t help me, it hurts him. So I hide this.
I text Regan a little, but it’s clear from her slow responses that she’s busy. She’s helping Daniel with the stalls at the Hays ranch. I can’t imagine Regan doing manual labor, but she says she loves it and it helps calm her mind. If that’s the case, I’m all for it.
I’m relieved when I’ve wasted enough time fooling with my phone to go to my next class. Principles of Architecture is a labor of love. It has absolutely nothing to do with my degree plan, but when my advisor suggested fine arts courses, I gravitated toward this one. Learning about the differences in Greek columns and how ancient civilizations created load-bearing walls is pretty dry stuff to Nick, but I’m fascinated. Maybe someday I could design new buildings, buildings with both safety and beauty in mind.
This class is primarily first-year students, and I’m older than all of them, which makes me feel a bit silly. Luckily, I find the coursework so interesting that I don’t mind being older than the others. I’m also one of only two women in the class. The other is a girl with pale blond hair who’s even quieter than I am. Like a wraith, she slips in and out of class. I don’t think anyone realizes she’s present except for me, because I am on the hunt for friends.
Through chance, she gets to class and slides into the empty seat next to me.
I should take this opportunity. I need to say something witty. Maybe about the rainy weather? Or what about today’s subject? According to the syllabus, we’ll be talking about the ancient Romans and their use of concrete as a building material. So I look over at her, smile brightly, and what comes out of my mouth is, “Rain and concrete today!”
She gives me a startled look and shrinks down into her seat.
I probably deserved that. I hunch down in my own seat and stare miserably at the front of the lecture hall. Rain and concrete? Really, Daisy?
The class passes miserably slowly, and even my interest on the subject can’t save things. When class is over, I take my time gathering my things and pretend to study my notes intently. Everyone files out ahead of me, and I’m the last one out the door.
When I exit into the hall, Nick is waiting for me.
My Nick is beautiful, but he’s utterly foreign to the bland students of Minnesota U. Even though he is wearing a long-sleeved shirt with a polo collar, I can see the tattoos on his neck of the knife, the spiderweb. His hands are covered with Cyrillic writing, and if his arms were exposed, they would be covered with even more tattoos. They tell a bloodthirsty history, and anyone in Europe, I am told, would give him wide berth at the sight of them. Here in the middle of nowhere, America, they simply think he is odd. Maybe a gang member. And his beautiful pale eyes light up at the sight of me.
My spirits are down, but I manage a smile for him and tilt my face up for a kiss. Nick pulls me in close and his mouth brushes over mine, and his touch never fails to send a shiver down my spine. I love this man. I would kill for him.
I have killed for him.
“You look tired, milaya moya,” he tells me as he wraps an arm around my waist. “Long day?”