When the Heart Falls

TWO WEEKS OF classes, and I still have a hard time with even the most basic conversation in French. They say some people just don't have a proficiency for language. I never believed this until now. I always thought that if I worked hard enough, studied hard enough, pushed myself hard enough, I could learn or do anything. I applied this principle to my studies, to learning architecture so that I could get in to the best program, to learning to speak like an academic so people wouldn't stereotype me as a dumb hick. I thought it would work with French, too. But, now I know I was wrong, and that error could mean the end to all of my dreams.

People pass me on either side, speaking so fast I'm not sure I'd understand them in English, let alone French, as I sit on the steps outside the Rodin Museum waiting for the rest of the class to arrive for our tour. I stare at the paper in my hand, my first test. All I can see are the red marks. There are so many of them, like someone stuck themselves with a pin and bled all over the paper while grading it. A 58%. I've never scored that low on anything in my life, and never worked so hard on anything either.

Without at least a B in this class, I'll lose my scholarship to Columbia. In five years, when my inheritance finally comes through, I fear my father will have broken my will. I won't be able to leave the family business after that. That can't happen, but I don't know what else to do. I examine the questions I got wrong, but I have no idea how else I would have answered.

"Hey, is that the test?" Winter sits beside me, straining to see. "How'd you do?"

I shove it into my backpack. "Good. You excited about the museum?" I already know the answer, but I love seeing how her face lights up when she gets passionate about something.

"Yes. Oh my God, I can't believe one guy created everything here. It's incredible. And I'm excited to study the details of his artwork up close and personal, to actually stand next to The Thinker, or walk up to The Gates of Hell, you know?"

I nod. I do know. It's how I feel about touring Notre Dame. And, I realize in that moment, how I feel when I'm with Winter.

The rest of the class catches up to us, Rodney giving us a wide berth as he glares at me from afar. I casually pick up a stick from the ground and smile at him. Face drained of color, he looks away.

I've felt unusually protective of Winter since that night at the club, and I can't seem to shake this growing attraction, even as our friendship deepens, or maybe because of it.

While I appreciate great art, and Rodin certainly qualifies, I don't share Winter's passion for it, but when we get to The Thinker I stop and study him. "I wonder what he's thinking about? Is he facing an internal dilemma? Trying to figure out which road in his life to take?" I think of Stevie, of the constant struggle that is his life now, and the choices I have to make because of him. I hope he's eating well. He loses his appetite sometimes when I'm not there.

Winter strikes The Thinker pose, and I snap a picture of her. "He's probably thinking about food," she says.

"Food?"

"Sure, isn't that what all guys think about? Food and sex? Maybe he's trying to decide which to have first, and it's left him paralyzed with indecision. Do I get sex? Or do I get food? Ah, the weight of it all."

I laugh at the ridiculousness of her analysis, and she laughs with me. It feels good to be silly with her, to let the weight of it all go for just a minute and have fun with a friend.

Winter pulls me along to another sculpture. The Kiss. Two bodies intertwined in a passionate embrace. I think of that night Winter pulled me to bed next to her, how she called me "My Cade" as she wrapped her body against me. But that wasn't really her, that was just the drugs. She and I are just friends. That's all we can be.

"I love this sculpture," she says. "Back home there's a small version of this on my desk next to the computer. It's for inspiration, for my writing. The passion, the love, it's intoxicating."

My mood sours when I think about what love turns into. "Too bad love like that doesn't last."

"I think it does," she says. "When the right people find each other."

Were my parents just not meant to be? They'd been like this once, but that died… when our family died. "I don't like it."

"The sculpture?" She raises an eyebrow at me.

"Yes. That's passion, not love. Passion fades. And once it does, you're left taking care of someone you can barely stand, suffering through hard times, putting up with each other, trying to make each other happy when you're not even happy yourself. A sculpture of real love wouldn't look this enticing. It would include pain and cruelty."

"You should see Brancusi's The Kiss." She slides her hand down the back of the statue. "It's just two people, two blocks of stone really, just holding each other, their lips pressed together. They don't look like passion, but they have it."