Periwinkle

21| ACCIDENTS

The clinking of champagne flutes and the murmur of conversation swirled around me, but I couldn't focus on any of that given my increasingly irritating conversation with Professor Carver. We were tucked away in a quiet corner, supposedly discussing my thesis, but he was being the usual asshole that he was again.

"Look, I appreciate the feedback," I said, trying to dampen my rising frustration, "but using 'intriguing' three times in one sentence doesn't make it so."

Professor Carver was perched on the edge of the plush armchair, fiddling with a stray thread on his cufflink. "It's just that... I'm not sure the whole 'existential dread expressed through finger paints' angle is working."

"It's not finger paint, it's abstract expressionism!" I huffed, feeling a childish urge to stomp my foot. "And it's about the journey, not some happy little tree."

This is not what I had envisioned this evening to be. Leo's party and this penthouse were supposed to be a chance for a night of carefree revelry, a chance to forget the academic stress gnawing at me since it was already almost halfway through February. Instead, I was stuck in a stuffy corner with my thesis advisor, our conversation as dry as the hors d'oeuvres circulating in the room.

The rented penthouse in itself was gorgeous, with panoramic city views and shimmering infinity pools. The music, a thumping bass that vibrated through the floorboards along with the echoing laughter of the guests, was punctuated by the clinking of expensive champagne flutes. Crystal chandeliers cast a warm glow on clusters of people, their conversations a low hum that rose and fell like the tide. Waiters glided through the crowd while balancing trays of canapés that looked like miniature works of art.

Though despite the opulence, dissonance gnawed at me ever since I stepped foot at this party. The conversations I overheard were often shallow, the laughter brittle. It felt like a performance. Or maybe it was just me. This world felt so far away from the comfortable little world of my cluttered studio, the smell of turpentine and possibility. This world, with its polished surfaces and unspoken rules, felt like a costume I couldn't quite wear comfortably.

Now, as Leo was away socializing and building up his image and whatnot, I found myself with the only other person I knew here except for Leo.

"Right, the journey," Professor Carver drawled. "Where are we on that journey exactly?"

"Lost," I said with a frustrated sigh. "Lost in a sea of academic jargon and pretentious critiques."

Just then, the scent of expensive perfume hit my nose, and a vision in emerald silk emerged in front of me, her smile warm and eyes kind. Her blonde hair was styled in a chic bob, and her necklace sparkled under the soft glow of the chandelier. It didn't take me more than a second to recognize her. This was her, the elusive Mrs. Carver, the Carver brother's mother. She was in town for the party. I'd seen countless photos, of course, but the real thing was even more breathtaking.

"Lost, are we?" she asked, her voice rich and inviting. "That sounds like a conversation I should be part of."

"Mom," Professor Carver mumbled, finally looking up from his cufflinks. "This is Kara Williams, my..." he hesitated, then cleared his throat. "One of my art history students."

With a smile, I extended my hand towards her. Mrs. Carver clasped it firmly, her gaze once sweeping over me, taking in the maroon dress that clung to my curves, a stark contrast to my usual paint-splattered clothes. Leo had given it to me as a gift for tonight. The dress was clearly meant to impress, but in front of Mrs. Carver's enthralling form, I felt like a budget knock-off of the real thing. Too young and flashy against her understated elegance.

"The same Kara that's such a dear friend of Leo's?"

My brows went up in shock at hearing that, my hand leaving hers. "He's told you about me?"