Pushing the Limits(19)

"Sure, no worries. Maybe another time." I hear the hopefulness in her  tone and hate that I'll have to eventually crush her hopes if she thinks  I'll ever go out on a date with her.

"Of course," I lie, but considering I need this job, I keep it as  friendly as possible. I know how tight-knit these small schools can be.  You piss off one professor, and suddenly, the dean is uninviting you to  his annual summer BBQ.

I start packing up my things, hoping she gets the hint to leave. Once  she finally does, I head out to my car and drive to my parent's house.

As I arrive at the school and wait for Natalia to come out, I think  about the last university I worked at out in Ohio. It wasn't much larger  than CSLA, but still heavily focused on the arts. I knew all the  professors by name and we often went out on the weekends together. When I  first moved to Columbus, I hadn't known anyone. Another professor,  Trent Wiser, befriended me right away and introduced me to the majority  of the other professors. It was nice having people I could connect with  on a professional and personal level. It took some time, but after  awhile, it became home.

Since having to leave, I've been trying to get that feeling back. The  feeling of being comfortable in your own surroundings. But as long as my  past was here, mocking me every chance it could, I worried I'd never  get that feeling back.

The sound of the car door opening grabs my attention to Natalia getting  into the passenger side. Her face is etched in a frown, and I know  before I ask that her day wasn't good.

"Hey, Short Stuff."

"Hi." She frowns.

"What number?"

"Three."

"What happened?"

"Henry Ashby is a douche."

My eyes narrow as I remind her, "No swearing." The corner of my lip  curls up, but I quickly look away so she doesn't see me grinning. "Did  the teacher write a note for me?"

"No. I didn't tell anyone."

"What'd he do?"

"It's nothing. Just drop it." She looks away and stares out the window.

Jesus … I wish I understood girls.

"Natalia … tell me what he did."

"He makes fun of me, okay? He calls me Fatty Natty and then tells all of his friends to call me that, too."

I grit my teeth as my palm tightens around the steering wheel. "I'm calling your teacher."

She whips her head around and glares at me. "No, I said just drop it. I'll take care of him myself. He's such a little prick-"

"Natalia!" I cut her off. "I'm calling your teacher. End of discussion."

She rolls her eyes and looks away again. "Whatever."

We drive in silence halfway to the house before I speak up again.  "You're not fat, Natalia. You're beautiful." She ignores my compliment  and keeps her gaze out the window. "You look a lot like your mom," I say  softly.

She finally turns and looks at me. "I do?"

I nod and smile. "Yes. You have the same wild and crazy curls. And you definitely have her sassy, take-no-shit attitude."

She flashes a weak smile. "I wish I remembered her." Her head lowers, and I can see her eyes close.

"I know, Shorty. I know. I wish you did, too."

We arrive at my parent's house but stay put in the car until Natalia  recovers. She wipes away the tears she's pretending don't exist, and I  wait until she's ready.

"Okay. Let's go." She whips the car door open and gets out as if nothing had happened.

I feel for her. As much as my situation sucks, hers sucks worse. She's  lost both parents before the age of twelve. She's angry and bitter, and I  wish I knew how to help her.

But I've been angry and bitter for five years, and I have no clue how to even help myself.





I hear the clicking of her heels before I see her. I look up and see her  walking in with her bag hanging off her shoulder. She looks absolutely  stunning in her black skinny jeans and a white top that hangs off her  shoulder just enough to see the smooth skin underneath. I look down and  smirk when I see she's wearing bright red heels, just like in my  fantasy.         

     



 

I stay put behind my desk and wait for her to come to me. I lean back in my chair and cross my arms over my chest.

She tilts her head and rolls her eyes. "You're really bad at this teacher thing, you know that?"

"I take offense to that."

"You should." She laughs. "Now you want to tell me why I've been  sentenced to early class time?" I can see her mind spinning with the way  she's fidgeting with her strap, but she's trying to put a straight face  on.

It's pretty fucking adorable how antsy and nervous she gets around me.

Which really makes me just want to do it more to see how far I can push it.

"Grab a blank canvas, easel, and three oil paint colors."

She drops her bag on the floor and glares at me. "You're so bossy."

"It's kind of my job."

She looks up at the clock on the wall. "Technically, it's not for  another forty-five minutes." I sit up in my chair and keep my eyes  locked on hers until she budges. "Fine." A victorious smile flashes on  my face and she glares at me once again.

It only takes her a minute to set up and then she's standing eagerly waiting.

"Paint something happy."

Her brows furrow and her lips turn down. "What?"

"Happy … to feel delight, pleased, or glad."

"I know what the definition of happy is." She shakes her head at me. "Why?"

"I just want to see if you're capable."

"I am."

"Prove it," I challenge her.

She sighs. "Fine. But you can't watch me."

"That wasn't the deal."

"Deal? I'm basically here against my will."

"Don't be so dramatic."

"You're lucky I love to paint." She sneers.

I smile in return and say just above a whisper, "I know."

She bites her lip and looks away. She dips her brush and begins making  strokes against the canvas. Watching her gives me goose bumps, and I  know I could watch her paint for hours.

I see her eyes look over the canvas at me every few minutes or so. She  doesn't say anything, just continues painting and checking to see if I'm  still watching her. I can barely peel my eyes away from her when I  check the clock on the wall to make sure we don't run out of time.

"All right. Done." She sets the brush down and smiles.

I'm intrigued to see what she came up with in a matter of thirty  minutes. I hadn't expected her to do a masterpiece, but I wanted to  challenge her to explore a different part of her psyche.

"Ready?" she asks.

"Let's see it."

She spins the easel around in my direction and stands next to it as she waits for my reaction.

It's quite simple, but so perfectly fitting. "It's a vase of lilies," she explains softly, all teasing aside.

The vase is tinted in a light pink color. The green from the stems pop  out, bright and full of life. The lilies are left white, but only half  of them have bloomed all the way.

"It's really stunning," I say honestly.

She shrugs. "Had I been given more time and supplies, I could've been more detailed."

"As true as that may be, that wasn't the assignment."

The corners of her lips curl up slightly. "So, do I pass?"

I stand up and round my desk to where she's standing. "Not quite." She  tilts her head and looks up at me. "The meaning. What's the meaning  behind a vase of lilies?"

Her head bows, and I see her throat tense. "Nothing. It's just a vase of flowers."

"Aspen … " I say roughly, and she looks back up at me. "What's it mean?"

She inhales slowly and lowers her eyes to the floor. "It reminds me of my sister."

"The one who passed away?" I probe.

"Yes."

"She passed six years ago, right?"

"You remembered?" I see the mood shift in her immediately.

"Yes, of course. That must've been hard. Losing someone you loved so much at such a young age."

"It was." She inhales deeply. "It is."

"I'm sorry. I know how it feels to lose a sibling."

Her head pops up, and I see the interest in her eyes. "I'm sorry. It sucks." She gives me a sympathetic glance.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

She purses her lips. "I hate talking about it."

"Is that why you paint her so much?"

She sighs, a relieved breath escaping her lips. "Yes. It's my way of  coping, I guess. I don't think I'll ever get over it. I don't think I  want to get over it because then that means I'm accepting it, and no  matter how much time passes, I don't want to accept it."         

     



 

"That's the most honest answer I've ever heard." I want to wrap my arms  around her and squeeze all her pain away. "I haven't accepted my  brother's death, either."

"When did he pass away?"

I take a step back and hesitate before responding. "Six months ago."

Her eyes widen and her lips part. "Oh my God! I'm so sorry, Professor Hampton. Honestly, I feel like such an ass right now."