Chapter 13
Chapter
Thirteen
By the time the Dean finished her speech about “innovative partnerships” and “synergy between athletics and the arts,” my face hurt.
People stood, clapped politely, then scraped their chairs back.
Donors began migrating toward the exit in clumps, clutching their little program booklets and making comments about “very promising young talent.”
Norman hovered near the doors like a spider arranging its web. He shook hands, flattered, and steered people toward the Blizzard trio.
“Don’t stab anyone,” Maddie murmured, collecting plates. “I know the urge is strong.”
“I make no promises.” She most likely assumed I was annoyed with all the production, but the only person I truly wanted to stab was Logan.
What had he been thinking? We’d discussed how I wanted to keep all of this a secret.
He didn’t even know that I’d talked to Shar and Maddie, which meant he totally threw me under the bus.
And for what? To prove he was better than a transfer student?
I dropped my stack of paper products in the trash just as Norman’s assistant appeared at my elbow. “Crystal, can I borrow you for a moment? We’d love a few more photos with the team.”
Of course they would. “Sure.” It was fine. I could stand beside Logan and pretend I didn’t want to rip his head off.
I squeezed through the crowd toward the front of the atrium, where the Herald photographer had staged a mini setup against a maroon-and-gold banner. Logan stood with Rourke and Haines.
“Crystal.” Norman beckoned. “Jump in.”
I stepped into place, but didn’t greet or acknowledge him. Not because I was giving him the silent treatment. Right now, I didn’t trust anything that came out of my mouth where he was concerned.
“Closer,” the photographer said. “Maybe hand half in your pocket? Logan, turn just a bit toward her—yes.”
Logan’s hand slid over my lower back, and I forced myself not to arch or flinch. Flash. Another angle. Flash.
“Perfect,” the photographer said. “Can we get one with the students?”
Norman snapped his fingers, summoning a handful of art kids who’d been orbiting the coffee table all morning. Tash slipped in late, and I waved her over.
When she shook her head, I mouthed. “Get over here!”
She balked, but eventually wandered our direction. As soon as she stopped next to me, I turned to Norman and caught his attention. “Norman, this is my friend, Tash. She does printmaking. A bunch of stuff, really.”
He shook her hand, then passed her a card. “We’re taking submissions for the opening show. Make sure you get a description of your work to me through email.”
Tash’s eyebrows ticked up. “Will do.” She obediently got into the group for a photo.
“One with the whole group,” the photographer announced. “Blizzard, student artists, Mr. Marcus, perfect.”
We arranged ourselves: Logan behind me, Tash at my other side, a row of students up front. I pasted on another smile. The flash went off again, bright enough to make a black spot in my vision.
Norman clapped his hands once. “Excellent,” he said. “We’ve done good work this morning. Crystal, excellent work. Logan, thank you. Gentlemen,” he nodded at Rourke and Haines, “a pleasure.”
Tash squeezed my arm. “You good?”
“Ask me in a week.”
Tash laughed. “Well, at least you look hot.”
I gave her a hug, and when I saw Logan approaching, I turned and made a beeline for the front doors. I couldn’t talk to him right now, I was too mad. Making a public scene at the donors breakfast was the last thing I needed to do to expand my career options.
Outside, the air was crisp and bright. The Douglas quad stretched out, patchy grass rimmed with frost, the flags at half-mast for Remembrance Day week. Students shuffled between buildings, breath fogging, backpacks bouncing.
I stomped down onto the concrete.
“Crystal,” Logan called. “Hey.”
I didn’t turn right away. I let him catch up, because at least then we’d be far enough from the Rozsa that the cameras wouldn’t be watching.
When he reached my side, I pivoted to face him. “What.”
He blinked. “You’re mad.”
“Excellent observation.”
“Can I ask why?”
Seriously? There was no way he was that clueless. I took a breath that stung my lungs. “You don’t get to do that.”
“Do what?” he asked, a look of genuine confusion on his face.
“Declare I’m your girlfriend. In front of my friends without asking me first.”
Relief washed over him. “I was trying to help.”
“By commandeering my personal life?” My voice pitched up. “You don’t think maybe that’s something we should have, I don’t know, discussed? In private?”
He exhaled, watching his breath plume and disappear. “Jake was hitting on you, and there were people there who would notice.”
“Jake hits on everyone, and nobody from the press cares about me. Norman was too busy peacocking. You’re the only one who saw a thing, so don’t pretend it was about that.”
He scoffed. “You don’t know that, and it shouldn’t have been me putting him in his place. Rory or Axel or Rob should’ve done it. That kid isn’t worth your time.”
I laughed, short and sharp. “You don’t get to decide that either. Maybe I enjoyed his company last spring.”
His frown deepened, a muscle in his jaw tightening. “Okay.”
“Okay.” I crossed my arms. “I specifically told you I didn’t want people at Douglas to know.”
His eyes narrowed. “No you didn’t.”
“I—yes I did! I said I didn’t want photos—”
“No photos doesn’t mean you don’t want people to know. Maybe—”
“You knew what I meant. And there was already a picture of us in the Herald—”
“Yeah. I saw it.” He scrubbed a hand over his jaw.
I drew a breath and released it. “I need to go home. I have a project to finish.”
He nodded.
“Talk to you later.” I turned and walked away before he could say something to make me feel like forgiving him.
It seemed like he was close, and I didn’t want to hear it because now I had a decision to make.
Was I going to let the entire Outlaws team think this was real?
That I’d gone behind Shar’s back to date her ex? Or was I going to tell them the truth?
There were already too many people who knew what Logan and I were doing, and we weren’t even close to the press walk through at the gallery. Would Norman start to hear the rumors? Especially if he was working with other students at Douglas? Would he care?
Variables swam in my subconscious as I trudged toward home. Logan Kemp had simultaneously improved my life and complicated it. I didn’t have enough information yet to decide if any of it was worth it.
_____
The next morning, campus felt different.
Eyes lingered a second too long. Two girls in the art building whispered something about Norman Marcus when I walked by.
So. Word had gotten out. I doubted the Outlaws said anything, but Logan wasn’t exactly quiet, and it wasn’t like I was difficult to identify.
The whole student body was buzzing about Logan and his teammates showing up at the breakfast, and the artists were just as star struck as I had been by Norman.
Unlike Logan Kemp, I didn’t enjoy the extra attention.
After my first class, I went to the Remembrance Day ceremony on the main quad.
Students and faculty stood in a loose semi-circle around the cenotaph.
Someone from Political Science read In Flanders Fields.
A trumpet played the Last Post, thin and slightly sharp in the wind.
Students from ROTC laid wreaths and we shared our two minutes of silence.
I stared at the stone, at the dates carved into it, at the tiny poppies pinned to all our coats. Men my age, younger. Boys who’d left school and never come back. My anxieties about school and jobs and even Logan shrank under the weight of it.
When I got home, the answering machine’s little red light was blinking like a distress beacon. I hit Play.
“Hi, sweetheart,” my mom’s voice chirped. “We saw the paper. Your father nearly choked on his toast. Are you really dating someone on the Blizzard? Call me. Love you.”
I thunked my forehead against the wall.
_____
My drive to the warehouse on Wednesday was uneventful, but my arrival was cause for celebration because the only vehicles in the lot were Norman’s Volvo and a delivery van.
For the first hour, I worked in blessed silence. Inventorying hardware. Sorting artist submissions into stacks. Drafting a preliminary student outreach sheet Norman had asked for.
No Logan.
By lunchtime, the knot in my chest had loosened a fraction.
By three, it had morphed into something new: guilt.
Maybe I should’ve called him. I thought back over our conversations and realized he was right.
I hadn’t explicitly spelled out my concerns, thinking they were obvious.
He’d admitted to missing the team and his friends.
It was his choices that led to that gap.
It seemed obvious that I wouldn’t want to be seen as accepting his behavior.
But, things had changed a lot since that first night in the grocery store. I should’ve been more open with him.
At five, Norman poked his head into the little office nook where I’d spread out submissions. “Go home, Crystal,” he said. “You’re making the rest of us look bad.”
“I still have to type up the draft for—”
“Tomorrow.” He tapped his fingers on the now actual door frame for his office.
Though I knew he wasn’t going to take his own advice, I packed my bag, shrugged into my coat, and headed out. The lot had emptied down to Jenna’s little car and Norman’s Volvo.
I slid into the driver’s seat, turned the key, and—
Nothing.
Well, not nothing. A sad cough. A weak whine. Then nothing.
“Don’t do this to me,” I whispered, trying again. The engine made a noise like a dying blender and gave up.
Shit. I hadn’t done anything, had I? Hit anything?
I tried one more time. The car responded by flickering the dash lights once, then going dark.
“Cool,” I groaned, dropping my head to the steering wheel. “Love that.”
I looked up at the dark warehouse. The light was already drained from the sky, and it suddenly felt a lot creepier being alone here in the parking lot.
I scrambled out of the car, locked it, and hustled back inside. Norman was at the far end of the space, taking measurements. He turned as I approached. “Forget something?”
“My car won’t start,” I said, a little breathless.
He waved a hand. “I was just talking to Logan about the reception. You can call him back in the office.”
I blinked. Obviously. That’s what boyfriends were for.