So Damn Beautiful (A New Adult Romance) (40 page)

“Holy hell, Annie,” he said, his voice shaky
with astonishment and reverence. “You were magnificent!”

“Didn’t think I had it in me, did you?” I
smiled.

“Of course I did! I just didn’t think your
brilliance would be wasted on a defense of Chase Adams.”

I kissed him softly. “It wasn’t a defense of
Chase Adams, babe. It was a defense of the truth.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see a
chagrined-looking Elsie standing alone. Although swarms of
reporters were beginning to gather around me, I knew I had to say
something to her.

She looked shocked as I approached, but
before she could say anything, I gave her an enormous hug. “I just
want you to know we’re not in competition. Any internship that’s
out there is yours. I don’t want it anymore. I’m not sure I ever
did.” I glanced back at Chase. “I have something real, something
beautiful. There’s no way in hell I’ll let another institution take
that away from me.”

Elsie was so flustered and amazed that she
didn’t even pull away. When I stepped back, she simply stared at
me, a flustered look on her face, before storming off toward the
exit.

I looked after her for a few moments. It
wasn’t like I thought this would actually break our feud, but I
hoped it would result in some kind of truce.

I walked back to Chase. I didn’t know how
long we had before Quentin broke up our happy party, but I figured
we might as well take advantage of all the photographers and
reporters clamoring for sound bites. I had no interest in adding
more sensationalism to the mix, but if I had a chance to tell the
truth and redeem Chase, I was definitely taking it.

Chase grabbed my hand and squeezed tightly.
“Thank you,” he mouthed, but the look in his eyes was more than
sufficient for me.

“So, Annie, tell us how you and Chase met,”
one of the reporters piped up.

I laughed. “Let’s stick to talking about
Chase’s art,” I said. I looked over at Chase and smiled. It was
hard to believe that the events of the last few weeks had brought
us to this night. It was hard to believe that through all the minor
and major skirmishes, we’d emerged—if not wiser, then at the very
least with a hell of a story to tell.

Wherever I went the following week, I could see people staring at
me, trying to be subtle about it but failing. Some of them were
people who I didn’t even think were NYU students, so the Quentin
opening had clearly made quite a splash in the larger community. I
couldn’t tell whether or not their glances were admiring or
envious, and frankly, I didn’t care. The extensiveness of the press
coverage made me want to put on a trench coat and giant sunglasses
and remain incognito for at least the next several months. While I
was loath to check out the dozens of art and fashion blogs and
magazines that had caught wind of the Quentin-Chase showdown and my
part in it, Kendra was more than happy to draw attention to my
newfound celebrity.

“Yeah, that’s right, people, eat your heart
out!” she’d practically screamed through a megaphone when curious
passersby had first stopped to size me up and whisper. “This is the
woman who won the heart of Chase Adams and smacked down the
heterosexist-white-male fiefdom of Quentin Pierce! Recognize!”

I’d laughed despite myself.
“Heterosexist-white-male fiefdom?”

She’d shrugged. “So sue me! Women’s Studies
101 is one of the only classes I’m taking this semester that
doesn’t make my eyes glaze over. Professor Claremont should be
taking notes.”

I frowned when I thought about Professor
Claremont. She’d canceled her undergraduate classes that week for
reasons unknown, but apparently she was still holding office hours.
As I made my way over to her office, tucked into a quiet spot of
the Barney Building, I wondered what I could possibly say to
salvage the last threads of my reputation. My speech had flown in
the face of everything I’d once believed about the art world, but
on some level, it was a testament to everything I had learned from
Professor Claremont: the importance and value of critical thinking;
the ability to look at art through a larger historical context, as
well as a perspective that engaged your personal values; and, above
all, integrity.

While I didn’t know exactly what I wanted to
get from seeing her, I knew that I wanted to offer some kind of
explanation for what had happened—especially since she’d been the
primary drive for Quentin Pierce to do the show to begin with. If
I’d made a spectacle of myself, for good or bad, I hated to think
Professor Claremont might suffer the fallout.

When I found her in her office, poring over
some files, I noted that she looked a little harried. All the same,
she smiled at me when she saw me.

“Well, if it isn’t the famous Annie Green.
What a delightful surprise,” she said. Nothing about her statement
reeked of sarcasm, but I still felt a little guarded when she
motioned me in to have a seat.

“Professor, I just wanted to explain a few
things to you . . .” My words trailed off as she gazed at me
expectantly, but I suddenly felt self-conscious and inarticulate.
“I know you and Quentin were really good friends, and I would never
. . . I just want to make sure we’re cool.”

She smiled, although I kicked myself inwardly
for that vapid peace offering. “Funny, in my fifteen years
teaching, I’ve never had a student check in with me to see if we’re
‘cool.’”

“I’m sorry, what I meant to say was—”

She interrupted me by putting her hand up and
closing her eyes. “No, Annie. It’s okay. You really don’t have to
explain yourself. You have no idea how many students walk through
these doors feeling like they have to apologize for being
passionate about something, or for having an opinion that clashes
with institutionally accepted facts.” She smiled at me warmly.
“That’s why I’ve always admired your spirit, Annie. You came into
my classroom and I recognized you at once—everything about you was
like an open book. You were so receptive to learning, but never at
the expense of what you knew to be true.”

“You . . . recognized me?”

“You reminded me of myself when I was
younger. Believe it or not, I also grew up in a small town, and
even though I was all over art, I didn’t have the first clue about
what it took to succeed as an art historian or critic. So my
patience and my intellect were tested quite a bit when I got to New
York, and I ended up growing well outside that safe little
potted-plant container I’d been so accustomed to inhabiting. But
you know what I realized?”

“What?”

“It wasn’t just because of the opportunities
I had that I progressed so much. It was because I forced myself to
be so open, to the extent that these fixed ideas I had about life,
about the world, were completely transformed.” She laughed. “It’s
crazy how stubborn eighteen-year-olds can be, isn’t it? But I
always saw that same receptivity, paired with hard-nosed wisdom, in
you. It’s what makes you such a great asset. It’s what made you
such a phenomenal addition to Quentin’s committee.”

I was astonished to hear her say so. “Are you
kidding
me?” I blurted out. “I completely failed.” I wasn’t
feeling sorry for myself—I was simply parroting what had to be the
general consensus about the evening, outside the enclaves of people
who’d latched on to the story because they thought Chase and I were
a hot-ticket item.

She shook her head, her eyes completely
serious. “Don’t ever think that, Annie. People are still talking
about you, and it’s not because you were wearing photograph-worthy
shoes. It’s because you had something important to say, not just
more of the cliché drivel this world has taken for holy writ. In
fact, you still stand a very good chance of landing the Le
Chevalier internship.”

I looked into my lap. The Le Chevalier
internship at the Metropolitan Museum of Art was highly
prestigious, and it was given to one New York–based college student
every year. Quentin Pierce also happened to be on the jury. “No,” I
said, feeling defeated at the very thought of the thing that, less
than a month ago, had been my sole aim in life. “There’s no way.
Not with Quentin on the jury.”

An indecipherable look came over Professor
Claremont’s pretty features. She stiffly said, “Actually, Quentin
has stepped down from his post on the jury.” She nodded when she
took in my shocked face. “This recent retrospective was a success,
but the university trustees were scandalized by Chase Adams’s
allegations against Quentin. And they’re the ones who cofund the Le
Chevalier internship.”

“Oh,” I said, not knowing what else to offer.
“You know, Quentin was barely around to offer supervision on the
pieces in the sculpture garden. He didn’t really know what was
going to happen.”

“Maybe that’s the problem,” Professor
Claremont sighed. “You kids did a fine job with the whole
thing—don’t get me wrong. But perhaps if Quentin wasn’t so busy
stroking the egos of Hollywood moguls, he could have been more in
touch with what was happening right in his old backyard.” She
pursed her lips, and I could tell she was willing herself not to
say anything more about Quentin.

“I’m sorry, Professor. I know he was a good
friend of yours,” I said awkwardly.

She gave me a somewhat cynical grin. “Still
is. We go way back, you know. And I love Quentin, but sometimes his
methods are questionable.” She sighed. “It’s a complex world,
Annie. One doesn’t always realize the importance of little
decisions they made many years ago. Maybe Quentin will, someday.
Maybe he won’t.”

My throat tightened a little bit. “I realize
that . . . but all the same, I think while some decisions might not
be easy, they’re the obvious ones. The right ones. I didn’t think
I’d end up making that speech Saturday night, but it was the right
thing to do.”

She studied me for a moment. “You really
could have the Le Chevalier, you know. Hell, I’d write a letter of
recommendation and hand-deliver it if you wanted me to.”

I put my hands together in a gesture of
appreciation. “Thank you so much, Professor. But honestly, I’m not
sure I want it.”

“Are you sure? This could be the proverbial
feather in your cap.”

“I don’t know—I was thinking about working
with a program that promotes street art in the community, maybe
even teaches kids how to unleash their own creative minds on walls
and sidewalks.” Chase and I had talked about starting our own
organization for at-risk kids. It was probably something that was
far off in the future, but it still sparked my imagination and made
me smile when I thought about it.

Professor Claremont shook her head in
impressed disbelief. “You’ve changed so much, Annie.”

I blushed. “Well, yes and no. I mean, I still
love art. It’s just . . . different now.”

She gave me a look of conspiratorial glee.
“Chase Adams, right? I heard you two have been . . . er, enjoying
each other’s company.”

I winced to think that my professor had
bought into the tabloid gossip. “Rumors sure get around, don’t
they?”

She smiled. “I’m Internet-immune, actually.
Ms. Blake is a good friend of mine. She’s the one who told me about
it.”

I’d almost forgotten I’d spilled the beans to
Ms. Blake a week or so ago, when I’d visited her to get some advice
on classes to select for next semester, now that I wasn’t 100
percent positive I’d be doing the curator track. She hadn’t said
much, but her taciturn responses had made me reveal more than I’d
normally be comfortable with, if only to get her to understand why
I was changing route midstream.

She’d only shrugged. “What you do is your
business, Ms. Green. After all, college is where you let down your
hair and dare to experiment.”

All the same, I didn’t want Professor
Claremont to think Chase was my only impetus for wanting to explore
other options. “Chase is great, but he’s just one of many factors
that have made me realize there’s probably a lot more to life than
those aspirations I came to NYU with,” I said.

“I can respect that,” Professor Claremont
responded. “But still, if you ever change your mind . . .”

When I walked out of her office, I felt
relieved that I had the support of the one person in the art world
whose opinions actually mattered to me. I was grateful for
Professor Claremont, but I still felt somewhat affected by the look
of sadness and dismay in her eyes when she had spoken of Quentin
Pierce. I know she’d trusted and believed in her friend, but
perhaps, no matter how seasoned you were in this business,
disappointment was par for the course.

The air was filled with anticipation and
uncertainty as I stepped outside into the slightly overcast
December afternoon. Chase was already waiting for me. I grinned as
I walked up to him, and he enveloped me in a giant bear hug. I
breathed in his scent deeply and stood in his embrace for several
long moments. I could feel the eyes of passersby boring into us,
and I could hear their agitated murmurs of recognition. But for
now, our attention was focused solely on each other. I tousled
Chase’s dark hair and touched my nose to his.

“Staying safe from the paparazzi?” I
queried.

He chuckled and tightened his hold on my
waist. “I could be asking you the same thing, Goldilocks.”

I laughed. “Aside from snarky comments on the
dress I was wearing, or lame references like me being the Edie
Sedgwick to your Andy Warhol, I’m not really the talk of the town
the way you are.” I nuzzled my nose against his. “Everybody wants a
piece of Chase Adams,” I said.

“They want the fluff, not the real story. But
all the same, I think celluloid would look particularly fine on
you, babe.”

I laughed. “I don’t think so. Didn’t you know
I was camera-shy?”

He twirled my ponytail around his wrist and
gave it a playful tug. “Are you kidding? You fucking killed it
Saturday. I’m sure I would’ve come off looking like a jackass if
you hadn’t been there.”