Chapter 55
The view of the sprawling Mobile Bay is beautiful in its own right, but if I squint, I can even see where a few of the downtown skyscrapers kiss the horizon.
Briefly, I picture that it’s not Mobile I see in the distance, but another city. New York or Los Angeles or Chicago. Somewhere bustling with people and a never-ending list of things to do.
I could belong somewhere like that.
I turn away from the windows as the tug starts to become almost painful, and immediately flush as red as the peonies on the nightstand.
Still hovering over the chaise, Adrian watches me, the sort of thoughtful expression on his face that leaves me wondering if he can read my mind.
I wonder what I must look like to him, awestruck by the very same things he considers “limited.”
If only I could read his.
I clear my throat. “You shouldn’t apologize.”
To hide the red creeping across my cheeks, I duck into the bathroom. There’s a full shower and an antique black pedestal tub. “For anything. Maybe ever again,” I call over my shoulder.
He laughs.
***
“Your art is lovely, sweetheart, but I have to confess…this isn’t what I pictured we’d be doing in a hotel room alone together,” Adrian’s voice filters across the room, from where I know he’s reading on the bed.
I’m eternally grateful that, with my legs slung over the side of the chaise like this, he can’t see my face or the blush that’s now painting it pink.
I lay down my pencil on the half-completed sketch of Lionswood’s fall foliage and sigh. “I know, but I have to finish this. The applications for Pratt are closing soon, and I still need to put a few finishing touches on a few of the pieces for my portfolio.”
That had been one of the few upsides to a three-week banishment in Mobile – plenty of time to sit and finish my application for Pratt.
There’s a beat of silence and then he says, “You’re quite set on the Pratt Institute, then?”
At that question, I peek over the side of the chaise. “Of course. It’s one of the best art schools in the country. Why do you ask?”
To my surprise, he closes his medical textbook, stands up, and comes to join me on the chaise. I attempt to scooch over and make room for him, but he just grabs my legs and throws them over his lap. “I’m just surprised, that’s all. I didn’t take you for the type to put all your eggs in one basket.”
“Well, they’re not all in one basket,” I retort. “I’m applying to a few others too. Rhode Island School of Design, California Art Institute, Chicago…” I proceed to list them out finger-by-finger. “But Pratt’s the holy grail.”
His fingers begin drawing gentle patterns up the side of my legs. “And if you don’t get into any of them?”
I straighten up. “I’m applying to ten different art schools. I’m sure I’m going to get into at least one of them.”
I have to.
“I’m sure you will, sweetheart,” he agrees, but it comes out sounding like the kind of sugary condescension a parent might spoon-feed a child dreaming of being a princess or a space captain.
“I will,” I repeat more firmly.
He pats my calf. “Yes, I’m sure you will.”
“I’ve got a pretty strong portfolio and an education from Lionswood. That alone should get me into at least half these schools, including Pratt.”
Adrian offers a thoughtful hum.
I exhale through my nose. “Stop that.”
“Stop what?”
“Stop agreeing with me when I can tell you’re thinking about something else. Whatever it is, just say it. Tell me what you’re actually thinking.”
He heaves a sigh. “You’re an amazing artist, and an education at Lionswood will certainly bolster your application, but…”
“But?” I press.
“But you didn’t have the time in your schedule to take AP Art this year –”
“ – but I still got a letter of rec from Ms. Hanson –”
“ – but your grades have been, as you’ve admitted yourself, less than strong –”
“But not terrible –”
“ – but far more noticeable given your lack of extra-curriculars –”
“I do extra-curriculars,” I interject. “I was a part of the woodworking club sophomore year…for three weeks…” I wince. “Okay, so maybe I don’t really do that many extra-curriculars, but in my defense, art and keeping a passing grade in about all of my classes has been my singular focus.”
He massages the tightly wound muscles of my lower legs. “Which is admirable, sweetheart, though I’m not sure Pratt will think so. You need to prepare for the possibility that they may look at your application and see a student that’s coasted by on academic mediocrity despite testing into an elite boarding school.” His fingers dance over my Achilles tendon. “And even with an acceptance, you’ll still need to cover the cost of tuition, room and board, living in Manhattan…”
I swallow, unwilling to acknowledge the growing seed of doubt he’s sowing in the bottom of my stomach. “I know. I know these things. I also know there are scholarships and grants. Financial aid. I’ll get a job. Two if I need to. And if I don’t get into Pratt –” I suck in a breath, the possibility of it tasting like dirt in my mouth. “ – then Rhode Island. Or California. Or Chicago. Or –”
“Harvard,” he cuts in.
I pause. “Harvard?”
He nods but doesn’t elaborate.
I shake my head. “I mean, I haven’t given any serious thought to any of the Ivies, let alone Harvard…”
“Well, as you’d expect, it has a great art school,” he says. “And there’s new faculty joining the department next year. Some renowned artist. Someone named Rory, I believe? I’ll have to check the pamphlet –”
My heart sputters. “You’re talking about Rory Huber. He’s the guy who did this amazing series on Hercules that exhibited in Athens. It went really viral in the art world and –” I suddenly stop talking, the last piece of a puzzle snapping together when I spot the satisfied smile that’s beginning to take shape of his mouth. “Wait. Wait a second. You’re going to Harvard.” I try backing off the couch, but his grip becomes iron. “And now you’re trying to sell me Harvard.”
For a moment, I feel foolish that it’s taken me this long to put it together when I should’ve known from the second he started sowing doubt about Pratt.
Or maybe from the instant he opened his mouth because God knows he doesn’t use it without some sort of agenda hidden up his sleeve.
And even though I’ve caught on, Adrian still has the gall to feign innocence. “I’m not trying to sell you anything, sweetheart.” He takes both my hands in his, drawing me even closer. “I just think you should consider all your options.”
“I didn’t realize Harvard was one.”
“Why shouldn’t it be?”
Why shouldn’t it be?
As if I’m picking between Chinese and Italian, as if it’s just another brand sitting on the same shelf, as easily accessible to me as anything else.
I can’t help but laugh. “Because I’m almost positive the acceptance rate’s below five percent, and as you’ve already pointed out, a Lionswood diploma isn’t going to disguise my weak grades or my lack of extra-curricular activities. I’d be better off taking the $80 application fee and throwing it in a wishing well.”
“Well, ordinarily, I’d agree with you…” I don’t like the gleam that sparks in his dark eyes. I don’t like it at all. “But that’s the beauty of being with an Ellis, sweetheart.”
My mouth turns as dry as the Sahara. “What are you suggesting?”
“My family’s quite close with Harvard’s president, you know,” he explains. “He has a long-standing invite to most of my mother’s dinner parties – at least, the ones happening on the East Coast. I’ve had his personal cell number for years. I doubt it’d take more than a phone call to ensure special attention’s paid to your application and any financial aid you might need.”
I blink at him. “A phone call. That’s it?”
He gives me a crooked grin. “Well, that and the implicit promise of a hefty donation once I’m on the alumni board. He’ll get his pound of flesh, too.”
I have that sensation again – like my entire world’s been tilted forty degrees to the right, and my brain’s the last one to catch on.
I take a deep breath.
And then another.
And then one more.
“You’re offering me Harvard.” My tongue’s so heavy it’s sticking to the bottom of my mouth. “Like it’s on a silver platter or something.”
He chuckles, clearly amused by my bafflement. “If it’s a silver platter you want, I’m sure I can ask room service for one.”
“That’s…” I shake my head. “It doesn’t work this way.”
He cocks an eyebrow. “Why not?”
I flounder for words. “Because…”
Because this wasn’t a nice bag or a pair of shoes or a pretty dress gift-wrapped in my dorm room.