Drift (Lengths) Read online

  The girl with the big, white teeth who sits next to Lydia—Susannah? I know she introduced herself and invited me to her parents’ pretentious party after last class—is scrolling through her Facebook status on her phone. Lydia is scribbling notes so fast, the side of her hand pulls through the ink and leaves dragging blue marks on the notebook paper.

  Sanjay’s excitement echoes around the classroom, energizing some, going right through others. I would absolutely have expected Lydia to have been one of the students absorbing every word. I wonder what she thinks of this lecture.

  I wonder if I can convince her to discuss it with me over some rogan josh at the little Indian place with the bright red walls and flickering candles on every table.

  I ask the girl sitting next to me if I can borrow a sheet of paper and a pencil. Her smile is overeager until she peeks at my sketch when I’m a few minutes in and realizes I’m not drawing her. She pouts and leans back over her notebook, and I focus on getting the slope of Lydia’s neck just right. I wear the eraser down shading the perfect approximation of the light pieces in her hair. She tucks a strand back, and I have time to examine the delicate whorls of her ear and the shape of her lobe.

  Before I know it, Sanjay’s voice stops with an abrupt last note on Vishnu and the lights come up. I squint at their brightness and watch as she stands.

  And I startle.

  Mierda.

  I was picturing her all wrong.

  Her features are more delicate and symmetrically beautiful than I remembered. Her eyes are tilted up at the sides slightly, and framed in thick, silky lashes. Her mouth is fuller and deeper pink than I remembered. There are dozens of tiny details I didn’t get quite right.

  What I need is some studio time with her.

  I decide that before I ask her if she’ll get naked and pose so I can paint her, I’ll gather my courage and attempt dinner. I know I may get shot down again, but I’m willing to keep trying. Something about her tells me I won’t be able to rest until I get her to agree to at least one date.

  Something about her also tells me that there’s no way in hell one date is going to be anywhere near enough.

  I follow—not too closely—as she and the other students leave the lecture hall. When her friend finally leaves her side, I jog to catch up and stand next to her.

  “Lydia.”

  She jumps and clutches a hand to her heart. I notice her eyes dart left and right, checking to make sure there are other people around before she looks at me under the brim of my cap.

  “Professor Ortiz? What are you doing here?” She looks around like she’s waiting to see the real reason why I’m standing in the middle of campus staring at her.

  “I wanted to ask you to come to dinner with me. There’s a fantastic Indian place around the corner from here, and I hear the pakoras in—”

  “Udupi Palace?” she interrupts, her soft lips swelling into a smile.

  “Yes. You know it?” I put a hand on her arm to angle her out of the way of the students rushing out of the building. Ostensibly. The real reason? I want my hand on her arm.

  I want my hands rubbing and pressing all over her body.

  “Know it? I was there for their grand opening. You don’t think you discovered it, do you?” Her laugh is light and teasing. “I’ve had that one in my back pocket for a while, but I’d only pull it out for someone I was really serious about. Their dal makhani? I’d hock a kidney for the recipe. You should save this invitation for someone…special.”

  Her eyes go dark, her pupils extended and pitch black. She bites her lip, not to entice me, but to stop herself from saying anything else.

  But she’s clearly giving me a hint.

  Or raising the stakes.

  “You don’t think you’re special enough?” I ask. She leans back against the light stone of the lecture building, and I lean closer, one hand pressed an inch from her shoulder.

  She’s petite. I take in just how tiny she is, surprised because the way she carries herself and the confident way she speaks, made me assume she was taller. But I could tuck her under my arm easily. I’d have to bend my neck and lower my face to kiss her. I want to draw my fingers under her chin and tilt it up so I can see if her eyes grew any darker in these long seconds that drag between us.

  “I’m not fishing for compliments from you,” she finally says, her eyes fixed down and to the left of our shoes. “I know what I am, Professor Ortiz. And what you are.” Her voice dips low. “And what it’s possible for us to be. And how impossible that is. Do you understand?”

  She lifts her eyes, and they’re now liquid India ink, dark with a want so wild it needs a cage and a lock.

  She may be locking her desire behind bars, but I’m willing to try every key in my arsenal to free that wild, purring, pacing need.

  “I don’t understand at all,” I challenge. “Tell me you don’t want to eat with me.”

  “I’m not fantastic at lying, Professor,” she says, her voice low and rasped around the words.

  “Me neither. I also fail pretty badly at denying myself what I want.” I put my other hand up, so both my hands box around her shoulders and the bow of my body envelops her.

  “That I’m very good at.” She lifts her hand and we both stare at it, delicate and trembling, a half inch from pressing on my chest. “I like to calculate risk and make a safe gamble. And—though this is very, very tempting—there’s a significant potential for loss if we…don’t deny ourselves what we want.”

  “What we want? To eat?” I ask, my mouth low and close to her ear. “It’s just malai kofta. Vegetables and curry. What could be less risky than that, Lydia?”

  Her mouth quirks up in a smile at the sound of her name on my lips. “There are so many—so many others who would be more than happy to join you for dinner. Why ask me twice?”

  “Do you think twice is enough?” I wait until she lifts her eyes. I love the way her lips are parted, just slightly, so I can hear the little pants from her mouth. “Because I expect you to turn me down. I’ve only asked twice, after all.”

  She presses her back against the wall, her arms at her sides, her palms flattened to the stone. “How many times do you think it might take?”

  “Dozens? Hundreds?” I shrug. “I’m an artist. I’ve been trained to understand that true beauty demands a chase. A sacrifice. It doesn’t just come when you snap your fingers.”

  “Now you know I couldn’t accept your invitation if I wanted to. You realize that, right?” Her tongue darts out and paints her lips, top and bottom, so they shine. Her smile is trying to trick me into thinking she’s completely collected, but I see a wobble at one corner. “If I said yes now, I’d be denying that I’m a true beauty.”

  “Hmm.” I move my hands down and closer to her body, loving the fluttering thump of her pulse at the curve of her neck. She can pretend she’s cool and calm: her body reveals every truth. “All you’d do is prove my theory wrong. That’s fair. Beauty makes her own rules.”

  “You have a gorgeous way of putting things, Prof—”

  “Isaac,” I interrupt, waiting, muscles tense, for her to repeat it back to me. I want to hear my name on her tongue. “Please, call me Isaac.”

  We had been in the middle of some kind of web, some kind of deep and sweet transcended moment where we both existed outside of anyone else’s reach. But the sound of my name snaps her out of it. She shakes her head, and, when she puts her hand up to my chest, it’s to push me away decisively.

  “I can’t. I just…Professor Ortiz, I can’t do this. You and I are in class together. I’ve made the mistake of mixing business with pleasure, and I got burned. I’m trying very hard to make better choices for myself.” Her eyes are still a rich, sexy black. “Please know how much I’d love to eat with you. I could use some intelligent company and good food. But, trust me, I know the risks, and going out with you would be asking for trouble.” Her smile is tight, sad even, and that sorrow bleeds up to her eyes. “Big trouble.”


  Her hand stills over my heart, presses hard, and then she ducks around me and rushes off so quickly, I feel like it all happens in the span of a blink or two. I make my hand a fist and slam it against the wall, grunting with frustration. I want a moment alone, to collect my thoughts, but I feel the eyes of someone on the back of my neck.

  I say a serenity prayer, knowing that my annoyance is out of place. I have much to be thankful for. This university has been a golden opportunity for me, and I’m not my father. I don’t plan on squandering my chances to make a successful life here because I can’t control my passions when I need to.

  I turn, a smile pasted on my face. It’s the girl with the teeth, the parents, the party I really don’t want to go to. Shit.

  “Professor Ortiz,” she says, smiling a mega-watt smile that burns my corneas. “So glad I caught you!” she pretends. As if this were all a chance meeting. I feel my smile slip. “I’m Samantha. From the lecture. I know this is so forward of me, but a few of us were going out later tonight, just a gallery opening and maybe a little dancing. Maybe you’d like to come?”

  “That’s so kind of you, Samantha,” I say guardedly. “But it might not be a good idea.”

  “Some of the other professors are going,” she rushes to add. “Professor Petura said he’d stop by, and, I’m not sure if you met her, but Professor Rodriguez from women’s studies is also coming.”

  “Rodriguez?” I ask.

  Like Lydia. Not much of a coincidence. It’s not an uncommon name at all, especially in this area.

  “Yes.” Samantha’s smile loses some of its dazzle. She stops combing her fingers through her hair. “You remember Lydia Rodriguez from class? They’re sisters. But Lydia doesn’t really want her sister to know she’s taking classes.” She shrugs one shoulder and rolls her eyes. “No idea why. Lydia is kind of skittish.” She purses her lips to the side and chews on the inside of her mouth. “I, um, invited her too.”

  “Lydia?” Before I can temper my voice, all the expectation is there.

  “Right. I asked her.” Samantha shakes her head. “Who knows if she’ll come. But it’s at seven. So. Okay. See you, maybe?”

  She doesn’t look particularly hopeful or eager. Which works just fine for me. I’ve had more than enough of being fawned over by the girls on campus.

  Well, I’ve had more than enough of being fawned over by most of the girls on campus. I’d be more than happy to have some fawning from Lydia Rodriguez directed my way.

  “Thank you for the invitation. I’ll certainly do my best to make it.”

  I try to keep my words modulated, but it isn’t easy. Damn, I love the chase, and I haven’t had anyone make me run for such a long time. I’m more than ready to play Lydia’s game: actually, I’m filled with adrenaline-backed excitement.

  Back at my apartment, I start to strip my clothes off to prepare for the night, but the canvas in the corner catches my eye. I take the folded piece of notebook paper out of my back pocket and study it before I grab my brushes and attack the image with a new resolution. I’m going to capture the cocky smile, the sensual pink of her skin when she’s excited, the flutter of her lashes, but it won’t be enough.

  I need to see what her lips look like plump and rosy after I kiss her.

  I need to see her hair mussed and her eyelids heavy after I have sex with her for hours.

  I need to see what she looks like when she lets go and admits our attraction is completely worth the risk.

  5 LYDIA

  “I love lamb tacos,” I sigh, finishing up a second helping and leaning back to pat my stomach. Which may be just a wee bit less flat than it was a week ago. My mother’s cooking features a lot of duck fat.

  Like, flocks of ducks give up their lives for her delicious meals.

  “Lydia, preciosa, Papá and I love having you over. But…is something wrong? You’re usually so busy with fancy client dinners. And Richard—”

  My father clears his throat at the name of my shithead ex, and my mother pats her silky black hair back into its perfect bun. My mother has always been the consummate housewife, and I have admired her perfect composure and perfectly ladylike good looks since I was little girl. Even after a day preparing a beautiful meal, she still manages to look like she just stepped out of a formal family oil painting; uncreased dress, heels, the whole put-together package.

  “Dinah, if Lydia wants to tell us about her life, she will. Can we not enjoy some time with our wonderful, successful daughter?” My father smiles under his neatly combed mustache and reaches across the table to pat my hand.

  I feel an icy lump in the center of my stomach. Like all that duck fat froze and balled up. I want to tell them, gently, what’s happening, but this is exactly why I can’t. My father is looking at me with total proud adoration.

  I can’t be the callous loser who extinguishes that look of pride.

  Especially because I never took the traditional marriage and babies route my parents prayed for. As well as I’ve done for myself, I live with the dreaded feeling it’s all a consolation prize for them. That they pictured so much more—so much I was never capable of.

  Before things get too weird, my sister Cece rushes in, almost slamming the door off the hinges, a pixie-faced redhead with her. “Mami! Papi! Is there enough for two more?”

  My mother snorts, then clucks her tongue. “You’re late. But when is there ever not enough? It’s wonderful to see you, Caro. How are your brothers? Your mother?”

  “So nice to see you, Mrs. Rodriguez—”

  “Please, call me Dinah!” my mother says, waving her hands at my sister’s friend as she slides into a seat across from me and waves shyly.

  “Of course, Dinah.” She smiles at my father, who gestures that she should help herself to some of the mounds of fragrant food in the center of the table. My mother always cooks like she’s expecting an entire squadron of soldiers or a random football team to muscle their way in at any second and need to be fed immediately. She slips settings under Caro and Cece’s plates. “Well, Tommy is trying to adjust to being a full-time plumber. Not that easy. Ryan is doing excellent. I think he and Hattie will be out for Thanksgiving, so that will be fun. And mom asked me if you’d be willing to give her the recipe for those amazing cinnamon cookies you had at your table during the breast cancer fundraiser?”

  “Ah! The polvorones de canale recipe. I’d be glad to share it. It’s my great aunt’s, and I’ve gotten so many compliments on it.” Our mother goes to the kitchen, strutting like a peacock.

  Cece is shoveling food in her mouth, her curls bouncing all over. She closes her eyes and moans. “Damn. So good.”

  “No swearing at the table,” Papá snaps, setting his eyebrows low as Cece grins like she knows how charming she is. “What are you girls up to?”

  “Caro and I are in a video installation that’s part of the college’s autumn exhibition, so we’re going to drink wine and stand in front of the monitors and see who recognizes us.” She winks at our father, and he gives her a reluctant smile, because Cece’s charm is always laced with something uncontrolled and crazy.

  “You should take Lydia,” Papá suggests nonchalantly, pushing his rice and beans around his plate.

  My sister and I gape at each other. We haven’t been put on the spot by our parents suggesting a melding of plans since high school. I wriggle in my seat, prepared to make an objection, but Cece beats me to it.

  “Papi, you know how busy Lydia is! She’s a junior partner. I’m positive she has more important things to do than tag along with her sister to some community art exhibit.” She gives me a smile that says, “I know. Papi es loco. No worries.” and goes back to eating. “So, what are you doing tonight, Lyd? I didn’t expect to see you here again.”

  “Oh, I’m, uh—” Before another lie pops out of my mouth, I stop.

  I just stop.

  I don’t want to lie to them anymore. I may not have the guts to tell them the whole truth yet, but I can sure as hell stop spinning mo
re crazy lies I’ll just have to find some way to unwind later.

  “Actually, I’m not busy tonight,” I say simply.

  Cece chokes on her forkful of food. It takes a few seconds of Caro pounding her on the back and a half a glass of water before she gets the chance to stare at me.

  Dramatically.

  So much community theater at this one little table.

  I roll my eyes. Hard. “What’s the big deal? I have nothing going on. That’s it. Sometimes things are slower for me.”

  Cece narrows her eyes. “Since when? Your day planner has been filled minute-by-minute since the day you got your undergrad degree.” She lowers her voice. “Did Richard break your plans?” Her eyes get this soft, earnest look I cannot freaking stand.

  “No,” I sigh, taking a long sip of my wine. “Richard and I are—”

  I’m about to say fine, but no more lies. Right. Shit.

  I take another hearty sip and a fortifying breath before I say, “Richard and I are broken up.”

  My father sets his fork down and plants his hands on the table. “What kind of mocoso breaks my little girl’s heart?”

  Cece is seriously not going to make it out of this meal alive with all her dramatic choking, Caro is watching us like we’re monkeys at the damn zoo, and Mami has her hand clamped over her mouth, staring at my father like he’s gone crazy.

  “Don’t talk that way in front of the girls,” Mamá hisses to Papá.

  “Doesn’t bother me at all,” Cece says. “Honestly, I’ve never been able to stand that douchebag.”

  Caro laughs out loud, Mami clutches her hands and shakes her head, and Papi nods like he agrees with Cece completely.

  I can’t exactly disagree, but I guess I feel a little like I just had the rug pulled out from under me. “Wait a minute. You all agree? You all hate Richard?”

  “We don’t hate Richard,” Mamá says in that way that clearly means, Yes, we hate him, but let me think of a more polite way to put this all. “It’s just that he was a little…self-centered.”

  Cece locks eyes with me from across the table. “He was a huge asshole, Lyd. But you always seem to have everything so under control, no one wanted to make a rift about him. If you liked him, that was good enough for us. But I’m so damn happy you’re done with him.”