His apology

He reached for my upper arm, halting my stride. His touch wasn't harsh or hard, just solid. He kept me in place. "What happened back there?"

I turned to him, my mouth in the shape of an "o". What happened? Was he seriously asking?

"Dr Reynolds, with all due respect, but are you fucking kidding me?"

"Language, De Montmorency," he said gravely, but I cut him short.

"You ask me to come here, to your office, at this hour, to show you a painting I did outside of the academic context, when you're not even my art teacher, just to smear in my face how terrible it is?"

He let go of my arm. Maybe my speech made something click in his brain.

"How do you think that made me feel? You aren't even a painter! This was just mean. And I won't apologize for disagreeing with you, what you said wasn't constructive criticism, at all."

He was silent, my voice echoing in the deserted entrance hall.

"I came after you because I forgot to say a few things."

He said, his hand reaching the back pocket of his pants.

"I liked the colors. They were bright and warm. I also liked the blotches of light coming in from the window."

He got out a tissue paper and handed it to me. I looked at it, then stuffed it in my coat pocket without a word.

"As for the dark portrait, I'll admit, I didn't make the connection at first. It's a bit corny for my liking, but I'm flattered that you included me."

I nodded slightly, jaw clenched.

"Even though it's a bit, well, imperfect, it's a fine De Montmorency indeed. You don't need to be upset."

I'm not upset about the painting, I'm upset about what you said, asshole.

"You can keep it since you like it so much." I said, sarcastically.

"No, it's yours, I can't keep it." He said.

I shook my head, my voice still low but steady. "I don't want it. It's ruined anyway since you went over it with pencil."

His expression was unreadable. It felt like he wanted to tell me something, but he held back.

"I'm sorry, Blair." He said at last. "I crossed the line. It wasn't my intention to hurt your feelings."

I nodded once. That was enough.

I took his apology as my cue to leave, so I decided to start walking out of the building.

I didn't expect him to follow me, yet he did.

"I'm not letting you walk home alone at this hour." He said decidedly. This was probably his way of showing me he was a decent human being after all.

"You don't need to, Professor. Really, I'm fine walking on my own."

"I'm not taking a no for an answer, Mr De Montmorency. Twenty minutes is still a stretch and there have been muggings in this area lately. Follow me." I rolled my eyes but did as he said. He led me to his car which was parked behind the main building. It was by no means a fancy car, but it wasn't bad either.

Once inside his car on the passenger's seat, I dropped my tote bag to the floor.

Dr Reynolds got in on the driver's seat and swiftly turned on the ignition, the lights inside the car turning on.

"What's the name of your street?" He asked softly, backing up the car.

"Highfield Road. My place is right next to the bookshop." I answered, looking out the window. He drove towards the road, using his blinkers.

"It's not true that I don't know anything about Art," he said all of a sudden. Alright, I got it. He was using this car ride to clean his image. "I was an Art student myself at Durham years ago. Actually, my year group was the first class Agnes taught here at the University."

I kept silent, my eyes on the road. Dr Reynolds kept speaking.

"I was once a painting student like you, ambitious and protective of my work, so I understand your reaction to my comments earlier. But you should also know that I know a thing or two about Art."

"Why did you decide to teach Art History then? Not to sound disrespectful, but—"

"The last time you gave me that warning you cussed me out, so be careful."

I let out a dry chuckle, but kept my expression neutral.

"As I was saying, not to be disrespectful, but Art History is kind of boring compared to making your own Art."

He clicked his tongue, "Well, sometimes you have to pay the bills."

"I understand. The life of an artist is unpredictable workwise." I said. "Did you keep painting though? As a hobby?"

Again, silence. Typical.

"Can't say I have. I realized it's not my vocation." He simply replied. When we got to a red light, he turned to me, changing the subject. "Have you read the paper for next lesson?"

"Can't say I have. I realized it's not my vocation." I answered, using his same response. He chuckled in shock.

"You're something else, aren't you?" He said through a smile. For some reason, that comment hit differently.

"You already said to Agnes Sminton that I was a troublemaker, so according to you, I guess I am."

Right as I was finishing my sentence, Dr Reynolds pulled up at my apartment building.

"Get out before you say something you'll regret." He said, pulling the handbrake, his arm brushing against mine as he did so. I opened the door and stepped out.

"Thanks for the ride." I said.

"It was the least I could do." Dr Reynolds said. "Hey, one more thing before you go."

My heartbeat picked up slightly. "Yes, Professor?"

He cleared his throat, his Adam's apple moving up and down. "I don't think there's a need to talk about what happened in my office with people from Durham, you understand?"

My jaw tightened. "Why? Are you afraid you might get fired?"

He shook his head. "Mr De Montmorency, I don't think you know what I'd have to do to get fired."

I said nothing, just scoffed under my breath. Then I turned around and walked in the direction of my door. Knowing that he'd wait for me to close the door behind me before driving away, I muttered under my breath:

"Maybe I know just the thing."

“Blair.” His voice stopped me. The tone felt slightly rushed and rougher, tighter than before, breaking the polite distance he’d just rebuilt.

I turned. Professor Reynolds stood by his car, the interior light carving a sharp silhouette around him. His expression was unreadable in the shadow, but his gaze held me with an intensity that felt like a dam about to break.

But it didn’t.

He seemed to have wanted to say something else, but what finally came out was just, “Have a good night.”

Polite. Controlled. Normal.

Somehow disappointed. Yet my heart began to hammer against my ribs, a traitorous rhythm I couldn’t calm. I pretended everything was ordinary as well, as he wish, maybe. And I mirrored his tone, offering a bland “Good night” of my own.

He didn’t linger any longer. He got into the car and drove away, leaving me alone on the sidewalk with a heartbeat that wouldn’t quiet and an undeniable truth:

His restraint was a fraying wire.

And I was holding the match.