Page 16 of Beyond the Lines (Pine Barren University #1)
Although, this time, she doesn’t know it was me, I suppose.
But she’s devastated.
She’s trying to be cool and calm, but I saw her shoulders sag and the momentary flash of sadness on her face as she read it, right before her mask of neutrality was put firmly back in place. I feel terrible about upsetting her, but at least she doesn’t know who wrote it.
Or does she?
My heart starts beating faster as I watch Lea reach into her satchel bag, then stops entirely when she pulls out a familiar piece of paper—the check from Marie’s from the other night, the check where I’d left not just a generous tip, but a quick sketch in the corner.
A tip and a sketch in the same handwriting as my critique.
Fuck.
She compares them, and I see the exact moment it clicks. Her shoulders stiffen, and she whirls around to face me, green eyes cold and full of contempt. I stand there, frozen in her gaze like she’s some sort of modern-day Medusa, her glare enough to turn me into stone.
“Lea—” I finally manage to blurt out, but she cuts me off with a look that could freeze hell.
“Save it.” Her voice is low as she walks over to me, trembling with anger. “I don’t want to hear whatever excuse you’re about to make up.”
“I didn’t know it was yours,” I say anyway, the words tumbling out. “I was distracted, I barely even looked at the?—”
“Distracted?” She lets out a harsh laugh. “What, too busy staring at me to notice my work?”
Yes, actually. But I can’t say that. “That’s not really—” I offer instead, but she’s not having it.
“One, that wasn’t an apology.” She ticks off points on her fingers, each one like a dagger to my chest. “And two, I don’t need one. Because we’re not friends.”
“Lea, I?—”
“We’re not anything, Declan,” she continues, not even letting me speak, her voice growing colder with each word, knifing into me. “I thought you were honest, kind, and interesting. But it was all bullshit, and I don’t spend time with liars, assholes, or athletes.”
“Lea, please?—”
But my attempt to stop her tsunami of anger falls on deaf ears. She’s already walking away. I stand there, surrounded by drawings I barely looked at in the middle of the one class I thought would be my escape from hockey, expectations, and everything.
And I’ve managed to fuck it all up spectacularly.
It’s only when she storms out the door that I realize Professor Lucas is still in the room. And she’s staring at me like I just pissed on her collection of antique watercolors or groped the model.
“Mr. Andrews,” she says, in a way that makes my balls retreat into my body. “A word, please.”
Her tone is light, but it’s not a request. She’s looking at me like she’s calculating how much my organs would fetch on the market. It’s not a look I’ve had from her before, and it’s not the look that makes me confident of a place in her select seminar.
“What was that?” she says.
“I—” My voice catches. “A misunderstanding?”
Her eyes narrow. “What I just witnessed was completely unprofessional. Your comment was mean and not constructive, and your confrontation with Ms. Altman made a bad situation worse. And, frankly, the whole episode showed a startling lack of maturity from a senior .”
I swallow hard. “I apologize, Professor. It won’t happen again.”
She taps a manicured nail against her crossed arm. “You know, Declan, when I saw your portfolio, I was impressed. Your command of light, your understanding of form—it was exceptional. And in the classes over the past few years, you had built on that reputation.”
Was. Had.
Words in the past tense.
My stomach drops.
“I had you at the top of my consideration list for the end-of-semester select seminar.” She holds up a hand when I start to speak. “Now I’ll need to be convinced.”
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck .
The select seminar is limited to only six students. Taught by the legendary Marcus Whittier, it’s the golden ticket for a job interview at any gallery in the country, or the way to make a curator instantly open their eyes and hearts to your art. It’s been a goal of mine for years.
“The seminar requires students who can take feedback gracefully and give it constructively.” She pauses. “It’s not a place for cheap shots or vendettas.”
“That wasn’t a vendetta, Professor,” I protest weakly. “I really didn’t know it was her piece.”
Professor Lucas arches an eyebrow. “So you would have written something different had you known? Or happily written that on another student’s work?”
Fuck!
I open my mouth, then close it again.
There’s no good answer to that.
“That’s what I thought.” She sighs. “Criticism should be about the work, not the artist. And it should be constructive, not hurtful. Always. The fact that you know that tells me you might not be ready for an intensive seminar where honesty is paramount. ”
“I am ready.” The words come out more desperately than I intended. “I’ve been working toward this for three years.”
“And I’ve been teaching for twenty.” Her voice softens slightly. “Look, you’re talented. But art isn’t just about technical skill—it’s about emotional maturity, about being able to share your vision, and about being able to give and take criticism without your ego getting in the way.”
My ego.
I want to argue that I’m not some prima donna hockey player who can’t handle criticism. But the evidence against me is pretty damning. Lea called me out on it, and now Professor Lucas has basically put me on the art world’s version of probation.
“I understand,” I say, though I want to plead my case, to tell her about how art has always been my escape, how it’s the one thing that’s truly mine, not something I do for my parents or my teammates, that it might just be my first love over hockey. But I doubt she wants to hear it.
“Good. I’ll keep an open mind about the seminar, but for now you’ve got some thinking to do, Mr. Andrews.” She straightens. “And Declan?”
I swallow hard. “Yes, Professor?”
“Next time, try focusing your attention on the model instead of your classmate. That’s what life drawing is about, after all.”
Great. She noticed that too.
My cheeks heat as I escape into the hallway, swallowing the humiliation that threatens to choke me. Outside, the air is crisp with early fall, but I barely notice. My mind is a hurricane of embarrassment and regret arising from the last catastrophic hour.
I’ve never felt more frustrated .
Not when my father called art a “waste of time” compared to hockey. Not even when the NHL scout called last year to see if I’d reconsidered going pro, and I had to explain for the hundredth time that I needed to finish my degree first.
This—this helpless, impotent rage—is new. And I hate it.
And all I can think about is how perfectly my own criticism applies to me:
Technically proficient but lacks soul.
Safe choices.
No risks taken.
Story of my fucking life.
But as I walk back to my apartment, a new emotion emerges, replacing the embarrassment and the frustration: anger. As irrational as I know it is, deep down, I don’t care, because Lea’s over-the-top reaction could have cost me everything.
The select seminar. My future. My dream.
I’ve spent the last three years working my ass off in every art class, perfecting my technique, staying up late to finish assignments even after grueling practices, only to have it all jeopardized because Lea decided to make a large scene about a small piece of criticism.
Getting emotional.
Confronting me.
Storming out.
And for what? Because I wrote a critique that—if I’m being honest—wasn’t even that harsh by art school standards, and nothing compared to the criticism working artists have to deal with every day.
I’ve had professors tear my work apart in front of the entire class. I’ve had classmates rip into my technique, my composition, and my subject matter. Art isn’t for the thin- skinned. You learn to take criticism, to extract the useful parts, and to discard the rest. It’s part of the process.
But Lea had acted like I’d personally attacked her.
Like I’d written “this is garbage” across her work.
I kick at a loose stone on the path. The rational part of my brain knows I’m being stupid and unfair. I wrote that comment in a moment of jealousy, not because it was what I actually thought about her work.
And I know she’s sensitive about her art—she told me that at the diner, how her mother constantly compared her to her grandmother, how she struggled with confidence.
But the more vindictive part of my mind, the part that’s winning, tells me that that Lea—the girl I spent Saturday night with, the one who seemed to get art on a level most people don’t—wouldn’t have been so fucking sensitive.
That Lea was open, curious, and funny. The one I just encountered was cold, angry, and judgmental. Like she’s already made up her mind about me based on one mistake, and all I get from now on is anger and abuse.
We’re not friends , her words from earlier scream in my mind. I don’t spend time with liars, assholes, or athletes.
“Yeah,” I mutter to myself. “Well, I don’t date judgmental bitches who won’t give someone a chance to apologize, or a second chance…”
Maybe I dodged a bullet with her.
Well, either way, fuck it.
And fuck her.