Chapter 24
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
EVE
“ W e’ll wrap up today’s critiques with Eve’s project,” Professor Alday announces. “Jayden, we’ll start with you on Thursday.”
The guy on my left nods as I pick up my canvas and head for the easel at the front of the room.
My steps drag with dread.
Critiques are my least favorite part of art classes. I understand their purpose, that skills have to be assessed to provide feedback and encourage improvement. But it feels very vulnerable, listening to others interpret or analyze your art, and Professor Alday is famous for his candor with students. It’s why this course—the most difficult painting class Holt offers—only has seven students enrolled.
Professor Alday is already frowning as he appraises the painting I finished late last night. It’s the same one I was working on right before break—a little girl and her father.
The prompt for this assignment was a place that you used to visit in the past, but can no longer go. Most of my peers painted landscapes of previous hometowns, which I would argue was a loose interpretation of the assignment. Those are places they could go back to, they just haven’t .
Whether or not I answer my father’s call later, I’ll never get to be the little girl with a dad.
“You should work with watercolors more often, Eve. Excellent technique.”
I smile, pleasantly surprised by the praise. But my smile fades as he continues talking.
“But I don’t quite see how you captured the prompt. The happiness of a father and child is hardly the bittersweet sentimentality I was looking for.”
“How do you know they’re happy?” I ask.
“Because that is the viewpoint you’ve created here. The way the father is looking at the child, keeping a careful eye on her. The background, a house that is messy and lived-in. You are crafting clues for the viewer, and none of them evoke the wistfulness I was looking for in this project. I’d like you to redo it, please.”
I blink at him, momentarily stunned. I’ve never been asked to redo a project before. This was some of Professor Alday’s milder feedback, but even his harsh criticism has ended with a grade for the original work I handed in.
“What’s more wistful than time?” I argue. “This is supposed to be a memory from the past. You can remember memories, but you can’t return to them. The moment is gone forever.”
“Art isn’t supposed to require an explanation, Eve. You have to tell us how to feel without saying a word. Perhaps you were conflicted, and that came through in the piece. Give some more thought to what you’re wanting to say before you tackle this assignment again. You have two weeks to turn in another interpretation of the prompt.” Professor Alday glances at the clock. “That’s all for today. Enjoy your afternoons, everyone.”
Not likely , I think, as I retrieve my canvas and trudge down the hallway to my private studio. I stash the watercolor painting as far back as it’ll fit, then grab my backpack from the corner and relock the room.
Mae Wilkins, whose room is two doors down from mine, is locking her studio space at the same time. She glances up as I approach, shooting me a sympathetic smile. “Seems like Alday had a shitty break.”
I huff a laugh. “Yeah.”
“For what it’s worth, I thought yours was really great.”
“Thanks. Yours too. I’ll see you Thursday.”
“See you, Eve,” she calls after me.
Rather than head home, I decide to go to the library to work on an essay for my Poetics of Narrative class. I’ve been putting it off because the prompt makes no sense, but it’s due next week. And I’ll be more productive in the library than in my bed.
I decide to get a coffee on the way. A treat, for having to redo a project I already spent many hours on.
A small, small part of me acknowledges that Professor Alday was right about one thing. I didn’t know what I wanted that painting to say. I was conflicted about it, same as I am about my current relationship with my dad.
Fifteen feet from the student center, I regret the choice to stop for a coffee.
Ben’s leaning against one of the brick pillars, watching me approach. He smiles when he sees me.
My smile back is tentative.
I don’t believe this is a coincidence. He’s met me here after my Advanced Painting class before.
I never responded to any of the texts he sent over break. And I knew, as soon as I was back on campus, that there was a chance of seeing him. But right now, I’m really not in the mood.
“Hey,” Ben greets.
“Hey,” I echo, keeping my hands shoved deep in my jacket pockets.
“You getting coffee?” he asks hopefully.
I glance at the door that leads into the campus coffee shop. “Yeah. You?”
“Yep. I’ve been editing footage for a few hours. Needed a break.”
“Funny timing,” I comment dryly.
Ben walks ahead to open the door for me. When I pass him, I notice the tips of his ears are pink.
It’s warmer inside—almost stifling—so I unzip my fleece and fiddle with the strap of my backpack as Ben and I join the line in front of the pastry display case.
“How was your break?” he asks as we wait.
“It was good,” I answer. “Great, actually. Was nice to go somewhere.”
Ben nods, visibly unsure what to do with that information. We don’t usually discuss our breaks from school. We either spent them together or spoke so frequently during them it felt like we did.
“Where exactly did you go?”
“Calaveras,” I reply.
“Never heard of it.”
I hadn’t either, but my voice is a touch defensive as I say, “It’s beautiful. Right on the Pacific.”
“Guess I’m partial to the Atlantic,” Ben tells me.
I glance at the line. Still two people ahead of us. “Right. How was Maine?”
“It was fine.” Ben averts his gaze, looking at the chalk whiteboard instead of at me.
I was expecting a more verbose answer. In the past, he’s told me about his family and his friends and his friends’ families. And the latest with the lobster shack, although I get why he’s not mentioning that now.
An awkward pause lingers as I try to come up with something else to say. I’m not sure when we stopped having meaningful conversations with each other, but I think it predated our breakup.
“They have blueberry muffins” is the best I can come up with.
Ben loves blueberry muffins.
“Oh. Great,” he says.
What feels like hours later, we reach the front of the line. Ben orders a cappuccino, and then the blonde girl at the register looks to me.
I wonder if she’s the one who gives Aidan free drinks, and smile at the memory of him bickering with Rylan.
I wonder if she’s ever given Hunter a free drink, and frown before ordering a soy latte.
“Are you paying together or separately?” the cashier asks.
Ben hesitates.
“Separately,” I say, handing her my student ID to swipe.
Ben doesn’t argue. Not the way he would when I offered to pay while we were together. And it’s a stupid thing to be bothered by—I should be relieved, assuming that means he’s accepted we’re over—but I immediately think of the way Hunter refused to let me pay for a single thing on our road trip when we’ve never been together. I don’t get the sense he grew up with money when he was talking about his hometown, either.
Once we’ve paid, we move down to the end of the counter, past the whistling espresso machine.
Thankfully, my drink is ready first. I grab one of the paper sleeves and slide it around the cup. “I’ll see you?—”
“Can we talk, Eve? Just for a minute.”
“I have an essay to write…” I hedge.
“It won’t take long. I promise.”
In the time I hesitate, Ben’s drink arrives. He swipes it off the counter, shoots me a pleading look, and heads toward an empty table.
I sigh and follow him. Take a seat. Cross my legs. Tap my foot against the side of my backpack, fighting the urge to stand and hustle out of here.
Ben’s tearing open a sugar packet and pouring it in slowly.
“So…what’s up?” I ask, hoping to hurry things along.
Ben exhales and snaps his lid on before he leans forward. “All right. Here it is. I, uh, I had sex with Rowan over spring break.”
I stare at him, totally taken aback. A hundred tries, and I wouldn’t have guessed those were going to be the next words out of Ben’s mouth.
The longer I stay silent, the more color leeches from his face.
“Say something, Eve. Please.”
“I—I don’t know what to say,” I admit.
Ben rubs at his face with the palm not cupped around his coffee. “I’m so sorry.”
More words finally form. “You don’t need to apologize. We’re not together. You didn’t cheat.”
“It felt like cheating.”
I say nothing. I didn’t feel like I was cheating when I kissed Finn. Or when I repeatedly checked Hunter out. Does that make me a terrible person? Did my father’s abandonment break something in me, so that I move on too quickly in other relationships to avoid attachment or disappointment?
Maybe I’m listening to too many psychology podcasts. That’s what I would have majored in, if not art.
Ben rests his elbows on the table. “It was my last night at home. You hadn’t responded to my texts and we were both drinking and it just…happened.”
“I really don’t need details, Ben.”
He winces. “Yeah. Right. I just—I wanted you to know it wasn’t planned. And it didn’t mean anything.”
I scoff at that. “Of course it meant something. She’s your best friend.”
“I—I know. But I’ve never thought of her that way. I swear. When we were together, I never even considered?—”
“We’re not together, Ben.”
“That’s your choice. Not mine.”
My spine stiffens. “‘I’m not sure we’re forever.’ Your words. Not mine.”
Another wince. “I didn’t mean it, Eve. I was worried about how you were going to react to me moving home, and I just—it came out all wrong. I already told you that.”
“I don’t care how it came out. It did, and we’re done.”
Ben looks down at the table. “You don’t miss…us?”
I’m honest. “Not the way that I should.”
That became glaringly obvious when I was in Calaveras. Rylan and Aidan…Harlow and Conor… that’s how couples in love are supposed to act around each other. Ben and I were never like that.
Ben doesn’t bother to hide the hurt on his face. “And Rowan? You don’t care that it happened?”
I exhale. “You really want to know how I feel about it?”
He nods.
“I’m…relieved. I’m glad that you moved on.”
Ben sighs. “Fuck.”
He sounds resigned, not mad, but I still feel obligated to say, “You asked.”
“Yeah. I know I did.”
I take a sip of my coffee. The two girls at the table next to ours are whispering and looking toward the register, and I follow their gaze.
Harlow, Conor, and Hunter are standing in line.
Harlow and Conor are talking to each other.
Hunter was looking this way. He glances back at the chalkboard as soon as he realizes my head turned.
Fuck .
Last night, when I couldn’t fall asleep, I thought about what I’d say to Hunter if I ran into him on campus this week. Ask how the drive back went or how his shoulder is or if he’d decided about grad school. If that went well, suggest we hang out sometime.
I hoped I’d run into Hunter.
But Hunter showing up now, when I got roped into having coffee with my ex? Far from ideal.
Harlow glances this way a few seconds later. She smiles when she spots me, but it fades into a questioning look when she sees Ben seated across from me. She says something to Conor and then heads this way. Conor waves as Harlow weaves around tables. I wave back, and the two nosy girls whip their heads in my direction.
I forgot, when we were in California, that Conor is a campus celebrity.
But then I hear one of the girls whisper Hunter’s name, and realize maybe they were staring at a different hockey player. Unsurprisingly, that makes me feel about as great as picturing him with the pretty blonde cashier did. The pretty blonde cashier who’s also staring at Hunter.
Harlow’s arrival distracts me.
“Saw you over here. Just wanted to say hi.” Harlow tucks a piece of hair behind one ear, raising her eyebrows at me before glancing at Ben. “Hey, Ben.” Her tone is cooler than it was when she was talking to me.
“Hi, Harlow.” Ben’s fingers tap nervously against the side of his coffee. “Good break?”
“Yeah, it was great. Yours?”
“Um, good, yeah.”
I snort. I can’t help it. Some of the shock is fading. I am relieved that Ben had sex with someone else. It’s ridiculous, because I don’t need his permission, but I feel like that gives me free rein to do the same, sans guilt.
I’m also…miffed. He tells me breaking up was a mistake right before leaving, and then hooks up with his childhood bestie? Talk about mixed messages.
Harlow hears the snort and shoots me a questioning look.
Later , I mouth at her.
She nods. “See you at home, E.”
“I’m not her favorite person, huh?” Ben says as Harlow heads back to the line without saying another word to him.
Conor is watching her. Hunter’s staring straight ahead, and it causes this strange spasm in my stomach. Maybe that’s my answer—we’re back on campus and we’re back to being barely acquaintances.
“She’s my best friend,” I reply. “And you blindsided me, Ben.”
“I know. And I’m so sorry about that. Truly, I am. Changing my mind about New York—it had nothing to do with you, Eve.”
I nod.
I know it didn’t. And that’s the problem. He wasn’t willing to move to New York for me after he changed his mind about film school. Just like I wasn’t willing to move to Maine for him, even though I could waitress and paint in a small town just as easily—more easily, probably—as I could in Manhattan.
And Ben knew that.
Knew it so certainly he didn’t even bother asking me to.