Chapter 15
I’ve become obsessed.
I can’t stop thinking about the girl in the maze—the girl from the funeral. The one that Max got into a fight with. Questions play in a loop in my mind, and I grow sick of my own thoughts. Did she know Carter better than I did? Was she closer to his family than I was? Did he love her more than me?
So, I do what any sane person does.
I use my FBI-level detective skills to find all her socials and stalk her.
Alexandria “Alex” Moreno goes to the big university an hour away. She’s the same age as Max and Carter. And based on the photos she’s posted, she’s known the Delaneys for many years.
But more than that, she’s the same girl Max said was Carter’s Moby Dick.
Her social media has only led to more questions.
How could I not have known someone whom the Delaneys vacationed with? How could I not know something so important?
Every string of thoughts has brought me to the same conclusion.
I don’t know Carter. In this life … or any other.
Open your eyes, Nieve.
Which is why I’m hiding in the library.
Before, I would come to this spot with Carter and everyone else.
We would spend hours on the top floor of the student library pretending to study as we sat on the carpet and pressed our backs against the giant windows that covered the wall.
On sunny days, they were warm, and on snowy ones, they were cool. It was an anchor to the outside.
Carter would pretend to work and wait for me to finish. I used to think his impatience was adorable.
It was. It is.
Now there are clusters of tables where there used to be beanbags. I find the one that has its back to the window, but instead of sitting in the chair, I pull it out and sit underneath it. My legs fold up, and I push my backpack behind me for support.
My sketchbook and pencil sit next to me as I listen to sad music in my earbuds while the leaves fall outside.
I give myself a moment to feel bad. Why would the universe ask me to start over, when I seem to be failing miserably at this? How can I get the world’s most famous lovers right if I’m so heartbroken I can’t even imagine love?
Maybe that was the point. Romeo and Juliet were fated to be tragic the moment Shakespeare picked up his pen.
I grab my pencil and start sketching out of habit more than inspiration. Just like I have since the first time I woke up in this version of my life.
And then I hear voices.
“I will never recover.”
Benji. I’m moving to stand when I hear a second voice.
“I drank way too much.”
Max.
“How? You were working half the night.”
There’s a long pause, followed by a deep sigh, and I wonder if Max will tell him we were together.
“I filled a thermos with mulled wine.”
“You need to build up your tolerance.” A deep thud like a backpack being set down sounds above me. “Is that why you worked past your shift? You were sitting in the hedge maze getting drunk by yourself?”
There’s a pause, and I don’t know why, but I hold my breath while he decides if he wants to tell Benji that I sat with him. We just sat. It wasn’t a big deal. Two people, barely friends. Sharing a drink.
“Where’s Carter?”
“You know he’s always late.”
My back is starting to cramp, and if Carter is coming, it’s possible that I’m going to die under this table, but too much time has passed for me to just announce myself.
“I bet he’s downstairs getting food.”
I hear a groan from Benji. “I’ll go grab him.”
Now is my opportunity to sneak out. I start to gather my things as quietly as I can and I just have to—
Legs come into view, and Max crouches down in front of me. “Hey.” On his face is a small smile.
I feel my eyes go wide. “Hey.”
“Whatcha doing?” he asks with a tilt of his head like it’s a joke.
“I wasn’t spying.” I say it too quick for it not to be suspicious. “I was already here.”
He only looks at me, his eyes sparkling in the afternoon light.
“I was gonna say something, but you guys just kept talking.”
His lips press together.
“I was being polite.”
Max is letting me ramble.
“Look.” I point to the sketchbook sticking out of my backpack. “I was going to try to sneak off.”
Max gently plucks it from my bag. “I was wondering what you were working on.”
“You knew I was down here?”
Without taking his eyes off my sketch, he hooks a thumb at the window. “Your reflection.”
I look over and see a mirror of myself folded under the table, and Max’s back. Of course.
“This is good.” His words pull my attention away from my humiliation.
“What?” I heard him; I don’t know why I’m asking him to repeat himself.
“The art. It’s good.”
“You sound surprised.”
He drops the page so that it hangs limply in his hand. “Don’t do that. Don’t fish for a compliment.”
“I wasn’t.” And it’s true. I don’t need Max Emerson to validate my work, but I’ve been struggling to see even my own vision.
“This right here? Where their bodies are turned toward each other, but the crowd has completely separated them? Is it their families? Death? Expectation of others? All of it? That’s good.”
My stomach swoops as he points to the place on the paper that he’s talking about. I was trying to symbolize how close they were to happiness. Which is what makes the story all the more tragic.
They were so close.
“Good art is something everyone sees differently.”
I nod, but I don’t really understand.
He looks up over the table. “You wanna get out of there, or do you want to keep working?”
I give him an annoyed look.
“I was asking genuinely. Sometimes inspiration comes from where we sit.”
The number of late nights I spent in the studio or curled up in an uncomfortable ball because that’s when everything flowed together feels innumerable. I hate that he’s right, that he gets this—he sees the artist inside me. Something Carter struggled to understand.
But Max only has to say this one thing, and I know he sees it.
He offers me a hand as I push out from under the table. We are sitting at it when Carter and Benji show up.
“Took you long enough,” Max says.
“I grabbed coffee.” Carter holds up two cups and smiles. Benji rolls his eyes, holding up two others.
“We,” Benji corrects. “We grabbed coffee.”
“Yeah, but I knew her order.” Carter sets down a paper cup with the logo of the coffee cart emblazoned on the sleeve. Two birds in flight. “Americano black.”
“Americano black.” Carter smiles down at me. “And there are even two birds on it, like us. Lovebirds.”
“That is so embarrassing,” I say to him as I pick up the coffee to hide the heat in my cheeks.
He sits down, pressing a kiss on the top of my forehead. “I’ll always be embarrassing for you.”
“This is for me?”
“Yeah.” His face falls slightly as he sits down across from me. “This is your order, right?”
It is, but instead of answering, I ask a question. “How did you know I was here?”
“Benji.”
Of course Benji could also see me, but at least he looks a little embarrassed about it.
“What are you working on?” Carter asks, reaching for my notebook.
“Just—” I pull it toward me and shove it into my backpack. “Something for the mural.”
“Can I see it?”
I hesitate. I don’t want to say yes, but I don’t know how to say no without sounding like an asshole. “Um, sure.”
“Did you leave your phone in your room?” Max asks Carter suddenly.
He looks down to his backpack on the table. “No?” He checks his pockets. “Ugh, maybe? Wait, no. Here it is.”
“Check your texts.”
I watch Carter’s face pull into a frown. “Fuck, when was this sent?”
Max leans back in his chair next to me. “An hour ago.”
Benji leans over Carter’s shoulder. “What is it?”
“Carter missed the volunteer hours for last month,” Max says, and takes a sip from his drink.
He groans and throws his head onto his bag. “So now I have to do double this month if I don’t want to be put on probation. How can the president be put on probation?”
“Same as everyone else.” Max sighs.
I pull out my history homework because Carter is distracted.
“What’s that?” Benji asks me.
“What’s what?” Linden walks up to our table with two waters and a brown paper bag. She has her dance bag slung over one shoulder and wears her practice clothes, her hair pulled into a sweaty ponytail.
“History,” I tell her and Benji.
“Linny!” Carter says with a pathetic face, lifting his head from his backpack. “I’m glad you’re here.”
Linden sits on the other side of me and sets down a water bottle next to my work. She cracks open her own. “What’s happening?”
Benji tells her, “Carter forgot to volunteer last month.”
“He didn’t forget,” Max says, leaning back.
Carter furiously types on his phone. “I had a test.”
“He had a test,” Benji says with a serious face. “All month.”
“Can I tutor you?” Carter asks Linden, who just laughs.
“Oh!” Benji looks at me. “Nieve needs help!”
Carter’s face lights up. “You do?”
I take my papers and pull them into my lap. “I don’t.” I already took this class and got a respectable C. I can do it again.
“You should let me help you.” He leans closer to me. “Helping you will help me.”
“I’m fine. Really.”
Carter’s face turns serious as he declares, “I can tutor you, Nieve.”
One textbook, five notebooks full of notes, and three highlighters sit in front of Carter and me, only one of us knowing what we’re doing.
Carter looks at me patiently. “Come on, Nieve. You know this.”
I groan. “I don’t know it. You know I don’t, so stop gaslighting me.”
“You’re using gaslighting incorrectly.”
“Great, now I need a tutor in English.”
He kisses the top of my head and pulls me into him. “No, you don’t. You just need to focus.”
“I don’t like history. I should have never taken it.”
“Agreed, but it’s already done.”
My tone changes. “What will you give me if I get an answer right?”
“Don’t try to distract me.”
But from the low growl of his voice, he is distracted. He places his hand on the inside of my thigh. “But I will reward you if you finish this page.”
Everything feels like it leads to a memory of Carter, and I already know how that ends.
“I don’t need a tutor,” I say. “I have to go to the studio anyway.”
Linden looks disappointed, but she holds up the water and a wrapped sandwich. “Eat this and drink this.” She looks at me, placing the water bottle in my hand. “All of it.”
“I will.” And I mean it. I give her a quick hug.
“I’ll go with you,” Max says. “I need to grab something at the studio anyway.”
Walking with Max. I don’t know when this turned into a thing, but I don’t love it.
On instinct, I look at Carter to see if he’s going to argue—and try to not let it hurt when he doesn’t. There’s no reason he would.
I grab my bag, and Max and I move toward the elevator.
“You didn’t have to go with me,” I tell him.
“I know.”
“I can walk there myself.”
“I know.”
“I—”
He cuts me off. “Maybe I just wanted to leave. Not everything is about you.”
I open my mouth and close it, not sure what to say next.
“Sorry,” he says after a few steps in silence. “I’ve just got a lot going on with the art final.”
“The mural?”
“No, my personal piece for the end of the year.” I can see the stress on his face.
“I’m sure you’ll be selected.”
But I can’t remember if Max was. Or if he had been in the years before. Something tells me he hadn’t been.
“It’s not easy to get selected.” He says it like he’s trying to remind me of something. Maybe of my own privilege.
When we reach the studio, I find an empty seat and pull out my sketchbook, thinking about different colors and paints I could use.
Sometimes the colors are ones I can envision like they were always meant to be those, and other times they need to be discovered through trial and error. Kind of like when dyeing roving.
When the setting sun is finally filtering into the windows high above, I look up and notice I’m all alone, except for the TA who works with the sculpture students for Professor Carla. Even Max is gone.
Max, who is so stressed about the festival.
I go over to his desk. On it are several drafts of the same thing. A woman laughing and holding a book as she sits on a porch swing. Some of them show flowers blooming in the house behind her; in others, she wears a sun hat. Sometimes the book is big; other times, it’s small.
They’re all technically good.
But they feel … familiar. Not special. They don’t stand out, even from one another.
One paper sits on top of his trash can and is of two hands almost clasped together, like the person is washing them. And there’s something here that feels like it needs to be rescued. It’s almost beautiful. It almost feels right. It’s … almost …
Almost important.
Without really thinking about what I’m doing, I tuck it into my notebook. He was going to throw this away anyway.
But before I leave, I pull out one of the papers on the desk and write my thoughts.
Perspective is hard. Try focusing on one thing.
I like the hair without the hat.
The flowers are pretty, but they feel … off.
Her smile is the most perfect thing here. Don’t change it.
When I’m done, I look at what I’ve written, and I’m suddenly horrified that I’ve just critiqued his work. And not only that, I’ve written it on the work. I would toss it, but I assume he’s saved it for a reason.
Instead, I tuck it behind his other work and wonder if he’ll even know it was me.