Ah okay. Joel is a Hebrew name so I was just wondering.
Chapter 47
I was walking to Nia’s studio when Milan sent me a screenshot of Jay’s Instagram Story with the message:wtf. My skin went cold. A flash of auburn ringlets, the girl from the gallery. Heat animated my stride. Before I could think, I texted Jay, my fingers stuttering over the keyboard.Ur asking ME to be monogamous? Is that what u even want bc it doesn’t look like it.
I barged into Nia’s studio, confused by the picture, confused by my anger. Confused by the man who wasn’t Nia hunched over her desk.
Tristan’s back shot up. It took him a moment to register me.
I choked out, “Where’s Nia?”
“She went to get something from her car. What are you doing here?”
I didn’t even know she had a car.
“What areyoudoing here?”
He faced me fully. “I’m her boyfriend.”
I hated when he said that, like I wasn’t something to her too.
“I thought you—”
“Hi, hi.” Nia swept in, box in hand. Setting it on the floor, she kissed Tristan on the cheek. When she pulled away, he was staring at me like I was the biggest pain in the ass ever.
“Oh, you finished.” Nia was looking down at whatever Tristan had been working on.
He drew his eyes toward her. “Yeah, but I’ve gotta run.”
He delicately tucked her hair aside to kiss her, pushing his tongue in her mouth. It was intimate, not meant for a witness yet singularly directed at me. Heart in my throat, my eyes retreated to the ceiling, blinded by the white industrial lights.
“That was so cringe.” Nia laughed, breaking away. “Where’s that stool?”
Spotting the stool behind Tristan, I dragged it out, hitting the back of his leg. “I remember when Jay and I first got together. We kissed like that nonstop.”
It was true. We kissed even more than having sex, making out in his car, on the campus green, basking in the buildup. He hadn’t responded to my rage text. I regretted sending it.
Tristan shot me a loaded look then walked toward the door. “Love you.”
I almost said it back. Nia sang, “Love you too,” while I pressed my lips together.
Nia painted me, her features taut with concentration. Sometimes a sound left her, like a sudden release of air. It was relaxing, observing work, those movie montages of people riffling through files, typing feverishly on typewriters. Or now: Nia squirting paint onto her palette, mixing it with a knife, stepping back to study me, the click of her boots. It was a welcome distraction from the deadweight of my phone in my pocket, not making a peep.
“Push your hair back for me,” she said.
I flipped my hair behind my shoulders. “Can I take my sweater off? I don’t wanna—”
“No, no, take it off.” She stepped from behind her easel to survey my face up close. “Sorry, do you mind?”
I shook my head. The breath from her nostrils warmed my cheek. Her expression was impartial, but I longed for a reaction, for her to be as affected by me as I was by her. Abruptly, she turned away, clearing her space. After drying her hands on a towel, she grabbed a denim jacket off the wall hook and headed for the door.
“Where are you going?”
She looked at me like I had three heads. “Starbucks. Where else would I be going at two in the afternoon?”
The campus Starbucks was lousy with cherry blossom imagery for March—pink floral stickers on the door, pink cups for purchase. Rumor was they weren’t even blooming this year.
