Chapter 33
33
Scott and I do not make it down in time for breakfast. Other pursuits occupy us for the rest of the morning. I really don’t mind—I prefer what we spent the hours doing over any amount of puff pancakes.
Instead, we grab coffees and Danish from the student cafe and walk around the campus. It’s surprisingly nice to experience the grandeur and greenery of Hollisboro this way, not as competitors prowling for clues. I stroll with Scott, hand in hand, sometimes speaking, sometimes not. Hey, remember when you chased after me right there? Oh, yeah. Remember when we wrestled here in front of a group of students? Yeah, definitely.
Eventually our morning walk carries us out to parts of campus our scavenger hunt didn’t—the more modern parts, which Amelia and her cohort didn’t want to use amid the Elytheum immersion.
We’re passing the prismatic admissions center when Scott stops us.
“Wait here,” he says urgently.
Without further explanation, he darts inside, leaving me perplexed on the steps out front. I do what he says, admiring the intense emerald lawn and the gentle, invigorating rustle of the leaves overhead. And in minutes, Scott returns.
He bounds down the steps to me, carrying a pamphlet in his hands. With flourish, he holds it out to me.
On the front are smiling students and Hollisboro’s recognizable Gothic architecture. Over the familiar sights, however, is embossed the surprise.
Hollisboro Master of Fine Arts Program .
I look up, speechless. The gesture leaves me on the verge of quiet tears. Is there anything more meaningful, any greater gift, than someone daring to hope your hopes with you? It’s magic of its own, making dreams, insubstantial like starlight, feel close enough to reach and firm enough to grasp.
“Just so you can see if it’s something you want to pursue,” he says.
“Thank you,” I reply softly. How did the colleague who once called my season summary presentation reductive cover up the incredibly supportive and kind man before me?
My eyes fall back to the brochure in my hands. The dream expands, delicate like they get when they assume the weight of real possibility. I love this campus. I love the lecture halls, the dining halls, the dazzling green quads. I love the feeling of sitting in a classroom, ready to learn and explore my passions. I love walking the quaint streets surrounding campus. I could live here.
I have a life, though , I remind myself. I have a job, a good job. I have an apartment in New York. I have Scott.
Or—maybe I don’t.
My heart drops, faster than a dragon plummeting from the clouds into combat. What if this is Scott’s horribly gentle way of saying we have no real commitment between us?
What if I’m only getting caught up in my newest fantasy? Made not of queens or fae, but of unruly, powerful incantations like long-term commitment and defining the relationship ? I fight their dangerous magic, remembering the facts. The facts are—we hooked up. It was wonderful, yes. And we haven’t planned for anything more.
Scott, I realize, may have planned for nothing more. Reality reaches shrewd fingers into my happy fantasy, prodding, pulling off pieces. Replacing postgrad dreams with unforgiving probabilities. I picture myself sitting in a classroom fighting loneliness and loss. Strolling the streets of Hollisboro without Scott. Wondering, What the hell did I do with my life?
My mouth goes dry. Of course, he and I haven’t had any conversations about what these past twenty-four hours have meant for us, logistically. We’ve made sweeping statements about wanting each other, but wanting and doing are very different. One is just a fantasy without the other.
What a reprise. Just hours ago I felt like the Experience had brought me to Scott. What if the story isn’t over? What if it’s only bringing me to heartbreak instead?
I need to be brave, I decide. I deserve to dream. Don’t I?
“I was sort of thinking I would stay in New York, though,” I say honestly, daring to envision how I could maybe have everything I want—or at least not lose it immediately.
Scott shrugs. “Sure, if that’s what you want,” he replies. “It helps to have the information either way, so you can compare. I’ve just noticed you admiring this campus.”
“I have,” I say.
I gaze out over the green. The day does my indecision no favors. The dappled campus spread out in front of us reminds me how I’ve fallen in love with this place. How I feel like I’m home , in ways having nothing to do with scented candles and fan art in my dorm or swords hanging in the dining hall.
“It’s just so far from…everything,” I venture.
“New York isn’t going anywhere,” Scott reassures me without hesitation. “And, you know, I wouldn’t mind coming down here on long weekends. You’re worth eight hours on the interstate.” He winks. “Or we could find a place to meet in the middle. We could explore more of the Eastern Seaboard.”
“Yeah?” I ask, feeling hope solidify around me.
Scott smiles like, Wasn’t it obvious? “I wouldn’t have handed you the brochure if I wouldn’t. I’m not about to compete with an entire college campus for your affections.”
I laugh. “I just wasn’t sure if last night meant we were…you know,” I say, “a one-time thing.”
“It’s already been a four-time thing.”
I shove him despite the pleased heat stealing into my cheeks. Yes, it has. “It’s just, you know, I have been told before I let my mind run away with me,” I hesitantly explain. “I don’t want to assume anything. I guess I’m…”
Nervousness finding me, I falter. Doesn’t every story have this part? I remind myself. Where the heroine needs to embrace adventure instead of resigning herself to disappointment or normalcy? I wonder if it has a name in fancy literary circles like Scott’s Master’s program. Personally, I consider it the Fuck-It Moment.
Fuck it , I order myself.
“I guess I’m asking you to be my boyfriend,” I say.
His eyes widen in shock for a moment. Then his expression turns serious. He takes my hand not holding the pamphlet in his, and there’s quiet mirth under the open incredulity in his eyes. “Jennifer, did you miss the part where I beat you to this? I literally asked you out yesterday.” Now he smiles, familiar and free. “Keep up, Worth.”
I don’t even rise to the challenge in his competitive goading. “Wait, so…you want to date?” I force myself to clarify. There will be no fragile fantasies, no dangerous magic of hope. Only the facts. “For real? I’m not imagining things here?”
“For real,” Scott assures me. “I want to be with you, Jen. Here, when we go back home, if you go to grad school here or somewhere else. We can do long distance or…whatever. I just want to try. With you . ”
Now my heart soars for the sky.
For real .
I know what trying means for Scott Daniels. It’s not just a word. I’ve watched him for the past year put everything into his work with precision and insight, determination and dedication. And he’s here. Wrestling with romantic problems, he packed up his Elytheum costume and drove eight hours into the Northern Carolina woods to try to improve himself, equipped with tropes and a notebook.
Yes, I know what it means when Scott Daniels tries. It might be more magical even than hope.
I kiss him, knowing it’s impossible to communicate the depth of my gratitude in one press of lips, and wanting to try anyway.
“Okay,” I whisper when we part.
“Okay,” Scott murmurs his refrain.
We continue walking the campus, eventually returning to our dorm and the Experience. Our fingers remain intertwined when we enter the dining hall for lunch. Of course, Laurel and Brit see us immediately. Erik is with them—winning adherents for his duel, no doubt—and when we near, the whole table applauds, drawing looks from the rest of the dining hall.
Scott bows with just a little fae-learned majesty. When he straightens, he gestures for me to do the same. Laughing, I shake my head.
“All credit is yours,” I say honestly.
Scott smiles, accepting my judgment. He hugs me from behind and kisses me on the cheek. “You have no idea how long I’ve waited to hear you say those words,” my former rival promises. “Sit,” he says. “I’ll get us lunch.”
I do, knowing I’m glowing and all my friends can see it.
“I promise no one needs to say I told you so ,” I preempt them. “You were right and I freely admit it.”
Brit preens. I remember she was one of the very earliest to encourage me to reevaluate Scott. She’s earned it.
Laurel leans closer. “So…” she starts, “how was he?” The sparkle in her eyes makes it unambiguous what she’s referring to.
I sit, knowing I’m not pulling off nonchalance. Or modesty. “You know chapter thirty-five in Exile ?” I ask.
The girls nod eagerly.
“Better,” I say. Eyes go wide at my pronouncement.
“I find that hard to believe.”
The pompous judgment doesn’t hide the amusement in the voice I hear over my shoulder. I look up, finding Val standing over me. His smirk holds genuine warmth, like the embers under a dead fire. I shrug, unembarrassed. One lesson I’ve learned from fandom is never to feel embarrassed when something makes you happy.
“I’m very pleased for you, Lady Jennifer,” he says sincerely. I’m reminded of his character’s deeper moments, when he isn’t wry or flirtatious. When his conversations with his closest friends reveal his loyalty and kindness. “And for Lord Daniels.”
I meet his ochre gaze.
“Thank you. For everything,” I say with intimation, remembering a conversation during dancing—one that only somebody who really embodied Val’s nobility would have had with his lovesick dance partner.
He nods in silent acknowledgment. Without saying more, he departs.
“Has anyone seen Amelia?” I ask. “I need to tell her, obviously.”
“I think she’s in her office. I saw her take her lunch back there,” Brit says. She points in the direction of the hallway leading to the dorm’s administration offices.
“I’ll be right back,” I promise everyone. I head past the bathrooms, deeper into the heart of the building.
When I find the door with Amelia’s nameplate in the now-familiar Elytheum calligraphy, I knock. I wait until she calls me in.
I enter, and my enthusiasm dies on my lips.
I’m shocked to find the place is a complete mess. Amelia always had the most meticulously organized desk at Parthenon. Not just meticulously— lovingly , with colored Post-it notes galore, elegant journaling, and a full-desktop calendar. The office I’ve just entered looks like the Elytheum Royal Guard ransacked the place for evidence of espionage.
Amelia stands in the center of her court of chaos, glancing up briefly when I enter, dining hall coffee in one hand and the paper she’s reading in the other.
“Whoa,” I can’t help saying, “what happened in here?”
Amelia waves the paper in a gesture of agitation. “Everything,” she says. “I tried to stay on top of it at first, but it was impossible. Did you need something?”
“No,” I reply, honestly worried what would happen if I said yes. “I just came to tell you Scott and I got together.”
My friend looks up fully from her work now. “I’m so happy for you, Jen,” she says earnestly. Her eyes have the fragile intensity of needing to push out a hundred other thoughts in order to focus on me. “Has he changed? Did he have a full Darcy transformation?” she asks.
“There have been Darcy-esque moments,” I concede, “but really, over the past couple days we got to know each other in a deeper way than we ever had before.” I close her door and come farther into the office. I have the feeling she needs to hear what I have to say. “And it’s all because of this place. This incredible experience you put together. Thank you. ”
Amelia’s smile wobbles. “I’m so glad,” she says, a little teary. “You give me hope. I want to hear everything when I’m—done here.”
The impatience in her final words makes me pause, regarding the mess around us. “Are you okay?” I ask gently.
Her instant reply is pure Amelia. I recognize her caffeine-powered reflex for upbeat professionalism. “Oh yeah, I’m…”
She falters. The room falls silent. She lets the paper in her hand drop to her desk.
Her eyes shift from mine, and exhaustion extinguishes the optimism in them like a gust of wind over a candle. She looks…wrecked.
“No. Not really,” she admits. “I think…No, I know I’m going to quit.”
I startle. “ What? ”
“I’ve been thinking about it for a while, actually. I’m going to finish out the Experience, of course. But after that I’m giving my notice,” she says.
I knew the Experience was demanding. I guess I figured it was the kind of intensity that Amelia lives for. “It was your dream job, though,” I point out, not indignant, just confused.
Amelia sighs. “I don’t know if those really exist. Once you start working, it’s just another job. Even worse because the idealism fuels you until it runs out and the crash is…huge. I haven’t been able to enjoy any of this, and I sort of just realized, why make myself miserable just because this is a job I wanted for years? It’s not worth it,” she goes on hollowly. “Next year I’ll be able to attend as a fan, and it’ll be better. I hope.”
I open my mouth and close it, not knowing how to console her. What would Amelia say? I ask myself. What would Scott? “I’m sorry,” I say. “I had no idea.”
She smiles humorlessly. I recognize the feeling of having not let anyone know you were struggling, the doomed pride in getting away with your misery.
And I remember moments from the past week—when she said with hurried finality she was too busy to date, how she refused even to consider that Fred is interested in her, how she said she missed when Elytheum was her escape from everyday work.
“Although…I guess, looking back, I understand,” I continue. Guilt cuts into me—the moments I remember now are ones I overlooked when they happened. I need her to know I’m not overlooking her now. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here for you better.”
“It’s not your fault,” she replies. “I didn’t want to admit it. I mean, it’s really fucking depressing, right? My dream job turned out to be a nightmare. I don’t even know what I want to do now.”
I hear fear filling up the vacancy in her voice. She stares out into the room, her gaze long.
Coming around to her side of the desk, I wrap her in a hug. “You don’t have to figure it out right now,” I reassure her.
She hugs me close. “Thank you,” she says into my shoulder.
“Come find me when you need a break, okay?” I insist.
Amelia nods, and I leave. I feel guilty for abandoning her in her hectic office, although I know one often doesn’t want company in the midst of overwork.
It’s hard, honestly, seeing what she’s going through and realizing I wasn’t present for her until now. I’m glad she’s choosing to do what’s good for her. Giving up a disaster disguised as a dream.
I stop in the hallway, the uneasy feeling lingering with me. The MFA pamphlet in my pocket is suddenly impossible to ignore. I pull it out, my stomach twisting.
What if I end up like Amelia? Chasing some nonexistent ideal instead of just…living my life? I had misgivings earlier, including ones having nothing to do with Scott. Homesickness, uncertainty. What if Amelia ignored ominous omens of her own, or didn’t recognize them? In our favorite stories, dark magic often hides the horrible debts it demands with the promises of pleasure and ambition.
What if I need to pull back on the fairy tale?
Being here is inspiring, but I need to remember my real life is valuable, too. Scott wasn’t entirely wrong when he told me I live every day like it’s a fantasy.
On my way into the dining hall, I toss the brochure into the trash.