Chapter 28
28
“ You what? ”
I should have expected Amelia’s reaction. I really should have. If I had, I would not have confessed to kissing Scott in the rain while Amelia was holding her fully globby paintbrush, causing her to fling magenta right onto my cheek with the violence of her exclamation.
Even Laurel and Brit’s eyes widen. The four of us and, for some reason, Erik, are sitting splayed out across the grass in the quad nearest our dorm, painting masks for the masquerade. Or, Amelia, Erik, and I are painting. Laurel and Brit are stenciling and adding feathers and diamonds, far exceeding the rest of our artistic abilities.
“When did this happen?” Brit inquires. Her perfectly impartial interrogation reminds me she’s a middle school teacher. I feel like I’ve just admitted to passing notes in Social Studies. I’m preparing to confirm my lapse in self-control when someone answers for me.
“Yesterday morning,” Erik confirms. “In the rain. Do you think my mask could be blacker?”
While I eye him in irritation, he holds up his mask, which he has indeed painted entirely black.
“A full twenty-four hours ago?” Laurel presses me. Unlike her friend, she doesn’t hide her delight at the detail. “Then didn’t you go to the sex lecture together? And why does Erik know before us? No offense,” she says to Erik.
He doesn’t reply, obviously wanting to discuss his mask.
“It’s black, Erik,” Brit tells him. “It’s impossible to make it more black. But if you add silver to the eyes, it’ll pop more.”
When the idea intimidates Erik, who inspects his mask like he’s envisioning the unattainable silver eyes, Laurel sighs. “I’ll do it for you,” she offers, hand outstretched. Thrilled, Erik passes her his mask.
“Scott told him,” I explain, wiping the paint from my face, confident I’ve left pink streaked on my cheek.
It’s not like anyone will notice, what with how this conversation’s embarrassment will change the color of my complexion. I don’t know how to admit to my friends how much I wanted to kiss Scott outside the graduate college—how much I want to kiss him again—when I hardly dare admit it to myself.
“And we didn’t attend the sex lecture together ,” I add. “We just wound up sitting together. It was…”
It was…a lot , I don’t say. We might as well have attended together, from the way we spent the hour. Stolen looks. Heat pounding in me whenever I saw Scott jot something deliberate in his notebook in his quick, neat penmanship. Shared imaginings, I have to assume. Either we were preoccupied with the same fleeting figments of passion, or Scott was playing another game with me.
I didn’t have a clue for him to swipe yesterday, however.
When the lecture finished, I had to rush from the room, overwhelmed. My second lukewarm shower in as many days awaited me. I headed straight to masks, hoping the artwork would distract me. Except when I found Amelia here, I realized I had to confess yesterday’s kiss. If she found out later, or not from me, my concealment would hurt her feelings.
“Awkward,” Laurel finishes, with utterly off-the-mark sympathy.
I straighten, returning to myself. I can’t quite force agreement with her, even when I desperately want to.
Amelia catches on. “Oh yes, sounds very awkward,” she replies with gleeful sarcasm, prompting Laurel to look up from her work on Erik’s mask.
She peers at me. “Do you have feelings for him?”
I know she doesn’t mean easy-rebound feelings. Hearing the complicated combination of emotions in her voice, I recall our conversation earlier about her engaged ex. Laurel knows what I know—like hope, feelings are dangerous. They’re just also impossible to fight sometimes.
Everyone has stopped what they’re doing—except Erik, who eagerly watches Laurel’s work on his paint job.
I look down at my own mask. It’s blue and stormy. Like morning rain. “I won’t discuss this with spies present,” I say, realizing Erik has provided me my perfect unexpected out.
He looks up, oblivious. “Me?”
“How do I know you’re not here at Scott’s request?” I press him, enjoying the opportunity to be interviewer and not interviewee.
“Dude.” Erik looks skeptical of my skepticism, which, okay, he’s right. I don’t let on, staying stern in self-defense. “I’m just here to paint a sick mask,” he declares.
The other women and I exchange looks. In fairness to Erik, his mask is obviously very important to him. His eyes have wandered again to the night-dark piece in Laurel’s hands. Despite his avowal to his alliance, I doubt I can convincingly pin my secretiveness on him without my cohort jumping to conclusions.
I sigh. “Scott probably isn’t even interested in more,” I reply, evasively. “I mean, he as much as told me that the reason he rejected me once was because he thinks we’re too different to even be friends. He could ask me out at any time, and—”
Right then, Scott enters the quad, striding with purpose right for us.
I fall silent.
Amelia follows my gaze. She smiles slowly, finding the man I’m watching approach us with absolutely no sign of slowing. None.
“You were saying?” she asks coyly, her enthusiasm apparent. Brit actually squeals.
Scott is fortunately out of earshot when she does. In seconds, however, he closes the distance. “Hello,” he says when he reaches us.
I look up from pretending I was focused on my mask. “Hi,” I reply. “Just passing through the quad?” I hear how overly cheerful and hurried my question comes out. Everyone else does as well. Laurel’s lips squirm like she is fighting a smile. In no realm would anyone grant me the honorific of Jennifer the Chill.
“No,” Scott says. “Erik texted me that you were here.”
Of course . I round on the dastardly Erik, who has the grace to appear guilty.
“Okay, yes, I’m a spy,” he admits. “I am really invested in this mask, though.”
The glare I give him says I’ll deal with you later . If I get a silver Sharpie and an opportune moment, he might just head down to the masquerade in a mask reading Second Favorite Fae Lord .
It’s Scott I have to deal with now, however. “Is there…something you need?” I ask him, managing more casualness now.
“Very much,” Scott says. “I was wondering if you would accompany me to the library tonight.”
Everyone goes completely silent and still. Even Erik. I find myself very much hoping I got all the paint off my face.
Scott waits. I look up. His pleasant expression doesn’t hide the urgency in his features. The gorgeous midday frames him in cerulean sky. It hurts my eyes to stare up. It hurts my heart to wonder if he’s working some stratagem—or, possibly worse, only interested in forming an alliance or something completely impersonal.
From the intensity in his eyes and the morning we shared…I conclude he’s not.
“Okay,” I say.
“Excellent,” Scott replies instantly. “I’ll pick you up at eight?”
“Okay,” I hear myself repeat.
His eyes lock with mine for a moment. I swear I see him stand a little straighter, like victory is coursing in his veins. It’s nothing , I reassure myself, fighting down my own imagination. After a second, Scott looks to the rest of the group and nods in greeting. “Have a great rest of your afternoon,” he says.
Then he’s gone.
Amelia grins. Honestly, grin is an understatement. Not even my admiration of the Experience on the first night delighted her like my whatever-it-is with Scott just has. “Well, there you have it,” she crows.
“It’s not a date,” I reply automatically.
Erik snorts.
“It’s a date,” he says.
My heart flips far too hopefully. I want to restrain my expectations instead of getting lost in the heavenly fog of a daydream. No, I need to. I need to be able to discern between fantasy and reality.
But it’s becoming dangerously hard as the two merge in my mind.
“Oh, come on,” Erik intones disappointedly, distracting me.
Shaken from my Scott thoughts, I follow Erik’s eyeline out to the edge of the quad, where I immediately spot what he’s reacting to. Val has started chopping wood—like literal segments of lumber with an axe—in view of the painting workshop and other spectators. He removes his filmy ebony shirt, for whatever reason. The gossamer garment’s loose cut wasn’t really impeding his freedom of movement.
Okay, never mind. Not for whatever reason. The moment Fred reveals his shirtless physique, I understand why. What was I saying about fantasy and reality?
Everyone stares. Including Erik. “Val doesn’t even chop wood in the books,” he complains.
“Who cares?” Amelia, Laurel, and Brit reply in unison.
It earns only discontented grumbling from Erik, who gently pulls his mask from Laurel’s distracted hands and furiously starts applying more black paint.
I don’t watch Val, although admittedly, no matter my feelings about Scott, the spectacle of Fred chopping wood is marvelous. No, I’m watching someone more interesting—Amelia. While she gawks like everyone else, I know she’s seeing something different. Remembering something different. With every majestic swing of Val’s axe, she’s recalling Fred’s enthusiasm about The Vampire Diaries , his hopeful flirtations with her, and probably a hundred other moments I didn’t witness in the Experience’s organization. The fan favorite infatuated with the fangirl. Swoon.
And she’s not alone in her feelings. I’m the only one who knows who Val—or Fred—really has his eyes on with his little lumber-working display.
Sure enough, he sneaks a look over at us , not any other painting parties on the lawn, like he’s making sure Amelia sees him.
I have to say something. “You’re drooling,” I inform my friend cheerfully.
Amelia snaps her mouth shut.
“Not more than anyone else,” she replies, her dispassion not fooling me.
“Aaaand I’m done here,” Erik announces grumpily. He stands, holding his precious mask. “Anyone know where I can get wood and/or an axe?”
“Yeah. Go share with your brother,” I say.
He glares at me and walks off. I remind myself not to say anything at all about Scott in his presence, certain my comment will not earn me Erik’s loyalty anytime in the near future. “Amelia, seriously,” I entreat her gently, “go out with the guy. He’s obsessed with you.”
The same flat sheen I remember from the cafe falls over Amelia’s face. It’s honestly heartbreaking. “No he’s not,” she replies.
I inhale. I don’t wish to repeat the results of our earlier discussion on the subject. And yet—never have I resented Amelia for her sometimes hardhanded advice about my life, even when it irritates me in the moment. I decide Kethryn and fantasy heroines aren’t the only inspirations I can draw from when I need. “He is,” I say firmly.
And what do you know—Amelia meets my eyes, half-conflicted.
“He’s always watching you,” Laurel adds. Even Brit, the non-lovelorn of the pair, nods in support.
I have a sudden, inexplicable pang of fondness, and sadness. When the week is over, we won’t be able to hang out like this. In this place of fantasy, I’ve found very real friends. Who will return to jobs and cities in other parts of the country, or at least the coast. I’m certain we’ll keep up over DMs, fan forums, and events…and I’ll miss them nonetheless.
I wonder if it’s something I might find if I returned to school. In my undergrad years, I found friends eventually, but it wasn’t easy or permanent. Many of my college friendships have faded now. I didn’t know how to seek out friends who understood me, who loved what I loved.
Making friends the way I have here gives me hope. If I start again, maybe I won’t just follow a new dream. Maybe I’ll find what I’ve found in Elytheum—community.
Amelia fusses with her mask in her hands. “He did ask me to dinner, but I was too busy. It wasn’t a date anyway,” she admits.
Everyone groans now. Including me.
Is she kidding? The rest of us have spent the week scrounging around a college campus for clues—I fell in the fucking river for one—in hopes of winning a prize Amelia offhandedly scored with a few professional conversations and a coffee run… and she declined? My friend is officially ridiculous and must mend the error of her ways.
Yet her words ring in my head. It wasn’t a date anyway .
I apply one final star to my mask and hold it up to admire it. Will I wear it for Scott to see? New fantasies fill my head, like the mask has summoned them with mysterious power. Decorated dance halls, gowns swirling like enchanted storm clouds. A man cut like no fae lord, yet made of magic entirely his own.
I’m scared of opening myself up to them. And I’m scared of closing myself off to them.
I know Scott had a point about not overlooking reality, but I don’t want to shut down like Amelia, either, ignoring something incredible right in front of me.
It’s a date .
Maybe it’s just a silly fantasy, but maybe—just maybe—it’ll be a dream come true.