Chapter 3
Chapter
Three
I raced down the hall, slowing before Jenna and Lindsey saw me so I didn’t seem too desperate, then turned down the volume on the machine before pressing play.
The machine beeped. I held my breath.
“Hey, Crystal. It’s Garrett.”
My heart dropped, sinking into what now felt like a toxic sludge inside my middle.
“Tash is hosting a thing Saturday. You should come. We could—uh—catch up.”
I hit stop. The red light stopped blinking, so I didn’t need to check if there were any messages beyond that one.
Heat crawled up my neck. That night sat in my memory like a blurry Polaroid.
Too much beer, Garrett heartbroken over Maddie.
I’d gone to Tash’s exposition to show support, but hadn’t planned on staying long.
And then . . . I don’t know. Kissing him felt nice.
Being wanted felt nice. Until I woke up in the morning wearing his sweatshirt.
We’d only made out, nothing beyond that, but it was enough to put me on Garrett’s radar.
That was the extent of my dating life over the past year. Two make-out sessions, one with the guy from that Vancouver hockey team at the invitational, and Garrett. Truly an impressive showing.
“You should go,” Jenna sat up on the couch to stretch. “You never go out anymore.” Apparently, I hadn’t turned down the volume enough.
“It’s true,” Lindsey said without looking up. “Your life has been boring since the summer.”
I squinted at them, affection and irritation braided together. “Wow, okay. Because you two are party queens.”
Lindsey sighed. “I’m an econ major. We’re not supposed to have lives. Why be an art major if you can’t have fun? You won’t be making money.”
Mm. Excellent. Roasted by my roommate, who was painting her nails the colour of alien vomit.
I picked up the receiver, the cord cool and coily against my wrist, and dialled the number from the message. The dial tone hissed, then came the quick series of beeps. Garrett answered on the second ring.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Garrett.” My tone felt forced. Hopefully, he couldn’t tell over the phone. “It’s Crystal.”
A beat, then that smile in his voice. “Hey, you.”
I groaned internally. I was going to have to figure out a way to get out of this because I actually liked Tash. And currently, she was the only one pencilling in plans on my social calendar.
“Hey, so Saturday. I might swing by. Just at Tash’s apartment?”
“Yep. Watching a Halloween movie. I’ll save you a spot on the couch.”
I winced. “Kay. I might have something else, but hopefully I’ll see you then. Thanks for the invite.”
I hung up, already feeling a little nauseous. I couldn’t tell if it was from talking with Garrett or because I’d been so hopeful it would be Logan’s voice sounding from the speaker.
“Very convincing,” Jenna said.
I flipped her the bird as I walked back to my room.
_____
On Friday morning, the studio smelled like wet plaster.
Sunlight filtered through the high windows, hitting the dust motes that always danced there in the morning.
Someone’s Walkman hissed quietly on the table, the tinny sound of Alanis bleeding through one earpiece.
I would’ve turned it off, but I never wanted to mess with a part of anyone’s creative process.
My table looked like a battlefield: wire spools, bent pliers, a half-formed armature that could’ve been a bird, a broken umbrella, or a paranormal creature.
I’d been here since eight and it was nearly noon.
Everything I’d made reminded me of Michelangelo’s half-formed carvings, except nobody was going to display my partial creations in Florence.
I twisted another length of wire, the metal biting into my thumb.
I muttered a curse under my breath. This was supposed to be a piece about tension—about dichotomies and paradox—but right now it was really only about me wanting to throw things.
I stepped back, squinted, tilted my head like that might help.
Nope. Still a sad coat hanger.
I scrapped it. Again.
Maybe I was just tired. Or maybe my looming graduation date with zero prospects and shitty social life was scraping out my proverbial creative bucket.
I didn’t want to give credence to that thought.
That would mean my well of inspiration was out of my control.
For an artist, that idea was more terrifying than meeting a bear in the woods.
I ran a hand through my hair and caught on a strand of hardened plaster. For one ridiculous second, I pictured myself marching to the nearest salon and asking them to shave it all off. No more pink highlights or cute curtain bangs. Just a new beginning.
It was a fun thought experiment, but I wasn’t that brave, so I tied it up and grabbed more plaster strips.
Kyle strode in and picked up his Walkman, settled the headphones over his head, and picked up where he left off on his project across the room. It looked to be the size of a lawnmower. The sheer confidence was enviable.
Maybe that was all I needed. A little more je ne c’est quoi.
A bit of hubris, less identity crisis. Wasn’t that how everyone I knew landed their internships and assistant positions?
I was already spinning fantasies in my head of meeting Norman Marcus if Logan followed up.
What I would wear, what version of myself Norman would be interested in.
But the odds of Logan actually getting me an intro were slim to none. Especially after how I’d treated him at Co-op. Though he had brought it up at the checkout line.
No. I didn’t need to get my hopes up.
I slipped my fingers over the cool plaster, removing the excess from the strip and letting it drip onto the newspaper-covered tabletop.
It wasn’t the end of the world. If I didn’t get some magical connection, grad school was the fallback.
UBC, maybe. McGill, if I got brave. Master’s in Art History or Curatorial Studies. Two more years to figure this all out.
The plaster strip stiffened in my hand. I pressed it against the armature, watched it take shape. Maybe that’s just what artists did. We built ourselves like we built our art. Creating something fragile, over and over again, until something finally held.
_____
A half hour later, I rinsed my hands in the sink until the water ran clear, flakes of plaster circling the drain. I stacked my tools, wiped down the table, and took one last look at the half-finished sculpture. From this angle, it almost looked intentional. Almost.
Outside, the sky had dimmed to that flat grey that meant snow or rain or both. I shoved my hands into my coat pockets and headed toward the path that cut across campus. The cold bit at my nose.
“MacMillan!”
I turned to see Axel and Rory coming out of the North Centre. Both wore their Outlaws jackets, hockey bags slung over one shoulder. Behind them was another guy who was a little taller with darker hair, and—
I sucked in a breath.
It took me a second to place him since it was so out of context, but that was number twelve. Jake. From the invitational last spring. When we’d returned our cafeteria trays after sledding, and made out by the dish return slot, right between the industrial sinks.
“Hey.” Recognition lit up his face. “Crystal, right?”
“Oh, hey,” I said, trying to sound casual while my stomach did somersaults. Guys you made out with once on a whim weren’t supposed to show up in your real life. That was the whole point of hockey tournaments.
“Wait, you two know each other?” Axel raised an eyebrow.
I scoffed. “Not really, just met at the invitational.”
Jake looked smug, and my cheeks heated.
“Okay, I was surprised because he just joined the team last week.”
I nearly choked on my spit. “Oh yeah?”
Rory clapped his hand on Jake’s shoulder. “He was impressed by our showing in Clearwater. Decided to transfer. Coach put him through the ringer in practices, but he’s official.”
Jake adjusted the strap of his bag, his eyes still on me. “You all hang out?”
Rory snorted. “She’s been avoiding us, bud. We used to see her all the time. Now it’s like she joined witness protection.”
“I’ve been around,” I said, a bit too defensively. “Just busy.”
Axel grinned. “Nah. You just love Maddie and Shar more than us.”
I laughed. “I mean, you said it.”
Rory pretended to be hurt. “Well, Maddie’s coming to the tourney this weekend. Is that enough to get you to come?”
I blew out a breath. “Some of us have actual homework to do.” I did have things I could work on, but a part of me wondered if I should call up Maddie and invite myself along. Sounded a lot better than sitting on a couch with Garrett.
“We’ll have to plan something when we get back then,” Axel pulled me into a hug, squeezing the air from my lungs. “Promise?”
“Fine,” I grunted. “I guess.”
Rory ruffled my hair and I slapped his hand away. They laughed and waved. Jake walked backward a step or two before joining them.
Have mercy. What was wrong with me? I should’ve been jumping all over that, but the idea of hanging out with the team filled me with dread instead of excitement. It just wasn’t the same.
By the time I reached the fourplex, my fingers were numb. I dropped my bag beside the couch, kicked off my shoes, and microwaved some leftover pasta. I rinsed my bowl, wiped my hands on a dish towel, and spotted the red blink of the answering machine.
I grabbed a pen and notepad, pressing play.
There was a beep, then a low voice. “Hey, Crystal. It’s Logan.”
The pen froze midair.
“I wanted to check in about that gallery thing. I talked to my mom, and she said Norman’s open to meeting you. If you’re still interested. I think he’s going to be over at the space tomorrow afternoon or evening. It’s a weekend, so I get it if you have plans . . . ”
No, the hell I did not have plans. Not anymore. I scrawled down the address and time on my notepad, and as soon as the message ended, I picked up the phone and dialled Logan back.
Funny, I didn’t have to check my notebook. I had his number memorized.