THE AUTHOR AND THE BOOK PT 1.
1580 Words
EVE’s POV.
My legs felt like lead as I stepped deeper into the gallery. The polished wooden floor creaked faintly under my feet, each step echoing slightly against the high ceilings and pristine white walls adorned with an array of paintings and sketches. The subtle smell of oil paints and varnish lingered in the air, mingling with the faint scent of aged paper and polished wood. Something tugged at the edges of my memory, a whisper of curiosity I had missed the other day. Something essential, something I should have noticed the first night, had apparently slipped past me.
If I were an artist, I might have claimed that these works had been drawn by my own hands—or perhaps, in some strange, uncanny way, someone had peered into my mind and painted them for me. I lingered in front of a collection that seemed to resonate with a rhythm only I could feel, my fingers itching to trace the imagined textures of the canvases. And then, as if sensing the whirlpool of thoughts threatening to pull me under, he appeared, timing his entrance perfectly.
That familiar smile stretched across his face, warm and effortless, as if he had a private joke that only I knew about. “What brings you here?” His voice carried lightly over the soft hum of the gallery, like a melody that demanded attention.
I tore my eyes from the intricate arrangement of images in front of me, debating whether to speak. “Have you read Chemistry Between Siblings?” I asked, finally deciding to voice my thought, my heart beating faster than usual.
His grin widened. “What is that? A novel?”
“Yes,” I said softly, nodding toward the pictures that seemed to leap from the walls. “Where did you get these images?”
He laced his fingers behind his back, tilting his head as he examined the works with a quiet admiration. “I conceived this collection while I was in Xenonia. A particular couple inspired me to create these pieces.” His gaze flicked back to mine, sharp and curious. “I wonder how you made the connection so quickly. Most visitors need my narration to understand the story behind these images. Yet you… you seem to grasp it instinctively.”
I smiled, feeling a subtle pride. All of the illustrations mirrored moments from my own book, written years ago in my first year at the university. I had shared it on a tiny reading platform, visible to only five people, and when their feedback—or lack thereof—disappointed me, I had deleted it.
“How did you come up with your ideas so quickly?” he asked, his eyes fixed on mine, attentive, probing.
I shrugged, brushing back a strand of hair. “I believe the goal of art is to convey a message to those who engage with it.” I tried not to dwell on the intensity of his gaze, though it made my chest tighten.
He nodded slowly, and the quiet satisfaction that settled over me made me smile. “Can I talk to you?” I asked, leaning slightly closer.
He glanced at his wristwatch, raising an eyebrow. “My time is valuable. Ten minutes. You have it. Start now.”
That seemed fair. I opened my notebook and handed it to him. “You wanted whatever I’ve ever written.”
He chuckled, mischievous and low. “Glad you chose well. You really can’t stay away from me once you’ve found me.” He flipped through a few pages quickly, eyes scanning the words. “This… looks boring.”
“I know. And it’s not that I can’t stay away,” I shot back, trying to maintain my composure, “I just can’t handle that beginner’s mistress.”
He laughed so loudly it echoed faintly in the gallery. “What did you call her? Mistress? Darling, she’s a PhD holder in literature.”
I rolled my eyes, irritated despite my amusement. “Is that what you teach in your courses? Embarrass people in front of everyone?”
He laughed again, shaking his head, and I felt a mix of exasperation and delight.
“Anyway,” I continued, my voice trembling slightly from excitement, “I know this is just a piece of trash. But it’s my favorite. If there’s any way to turn it into a masterpiece, I’d devote everything I have to make it happen.”
He closed the notebook with a heavy exhale, leaning back slightly. “You’ll need to pay me extra for this. It’s outside class.”
Money, of course. Nothing works without it. I swallowed, thinking of the impossibility of affording such a fee.
“I’ll take this back,” I said, snatching the notebook from his hands. “See you in class, then.”
He gave a relaxed shrug, his charm effortless. “See you in class. I’ll be waiting for your work.” My mind reeled—how could one person be so simultaneously cool, intelligent, rich, and handsome? It felt almost unfair.
“Okay,” I muttered, sliding the notebook back into my bag. My gaze returned to the collection, lingering on every brushstroke, every shadow and highlight.
“I don’t usually sell my masterpieces,” he continued casually, leaning against a nearby wall. “But if you love this one enough…”
“Don’t mention it,” I said, smiling faintly, “I can’t afford it anyway.” The economics of art were never simple; masterpieces carried value far beyond monetary understanding.
He shrugged, right hand casually tucked into his pocket. “True, but I could offer you a discount.”
I let out a quiet, almost humorless chuckle. “Looks like you really want me to have it. Tell me the price.”
“2000,” he said simply.
“Two… what?” My mind raced. In my currency, that was astronomical.
He rubbed the back of his neck, grinning. “It’s not a huge sum. But it’s my precious masterpiece. Consider it a gift for my first lady student.”
I blinked, flabbergasted. “And the discount?”
“Fifty percent.”
I choked slightly, coughing to regain my composure. Even with half off, I could never afford it. “I’ll just… visit it here,” I said, resigned.
“Your choice,” he said easily.
“I’ll see you in class, then. I’m eager to hear your thoughts on my writings,” I added.
“Why not now?” His tone was playful, yet his expression carried a serious undertone.
“Now? You’re not going to make me pay?”
“Yeah,” he nodded. “A minute or two, if you’ll allow me…”
“Sure. Why not?” I felt a strange satisfaction in the small intimacy of sharing a few moments with him, though we were practically strangers.
He turned, passing a wall adorned with a dense collection of his works into a smaller, more private chamber. I followed with quiet fascination, taking in each frame—the meticulous brushstrokes, the subtle play of light and shadow, the emotion captured in every figure and landscape. I had always loved art but never imagined I would meet an artist of such caliber, let alone converse with one.
My phone rang, and the caller ID flashed—Mr. Xavier. Relief washed over me; I had nearly forgotten him entirely amidst thoughts of literature and the enigmatic lecturer. I stepped outside quickly, raising the earpiece to my ear.
“Xavier?” I said, relief and irritation mingling in my tone.
“Hey! How is my girl?” His cheerful voice lifted the tension immediately.
“How dare you abandon me here?” I tried to sound annoyed, though the edge of playfulness crept in.
“I didn’t—”
“I told you to call me three times a day! This is the fifth day, Xavier.” Reality slammed back into me. We had never fought before; I wasn’t used to this frustration, this sharp prick of impatience.
“Are you picking a fight right now?”
I exhaled, forcing myself to sound calm. “Xavier…”
“I am so sorry, Eve,” he interrupted softly. “I know I made you mad, but I’ll do my best.”
I exhaled again, letting the anger dissolve. The lecturer, ever perceptive, was already grinning in the car outside, aware of my flustered state. He slid into the driver’s seat, clearly ready to depart.
“Okay. How is everything?” Xavier’s voice lingered warmly over the line.
“Great… just missed you,” I admitted.
“I missed you too. But…” The sight of the impatient lecturer through the car window made me cut the sentence short. I missed him—yes—but priorities came first.
“Can you call after two hours? I have my literature session.”
“Sure. I’ll call later. Bye.” The line went dead, and I slid into the car with a rush of relief.
The lecturer started the engine, the smooth purr of the motor filling the small space. The city lights stretched like rivers of gold and silver past the windshield, and I sank into the leather seat, letting the gallery’s echoes and the afternoon’s tension dissolve as we drove into the night, my mind already racing with words, brushstrokes, and stories waiting to be told.
- Writer
