Lovestuck

Chapter 22

Riya had almost forgotten about the senior field trip to the Philadelphia Museum of Art.

This was . . . troubling.

She’d been the one to suggest it during an early Student Council meeting, which had earned a smirk from Quin. “Very on-brand for you,” they’d said—a compliment or an insult, Riya couldn’t tell. She’d even scheduled the buses, filed the paperwork. Triple-checked

every detail. And yet as of this morning, about eighteen days since she’d cast the curse, she could not care less.

At the edge of the school parking lot, she watched clusters of seniors shuffle onto the buses and wished she was anywhere

else.

When they arrived in Philadelphia, students piled out to pose with the Rocky statue. The museum loomed like a giant neoclassical

temple, columns stretching toward the sky. Some of the seniors were already racing up the steps: Andrew among them, fists

high, soccer team in tow.

Mrs. Kang brought up the rear with her clipboard. “Head count’s done. Everyone’s here. A miracle.” She glanced at Riya. “Go

have fun with your friends.”

The word hung awkwardly. Riya didn’t correct her. She didn’t want to hurt Kian’s feelings.

“Oh, and Kian? I got your tech request. Do you need anything else for your perfo—” Mrs. Kang added, but Kian’s eyes went wide.

“No, no!” He laughed too quickly. “All good. Thanks. I’ll follow up.”

Suspicious. But Riya decided that was none of her business.

She pulled out her notebook and flipped it open—not to her Caltech essay but to her scrawled notes on curse theory, her tests

on Kian, and every scrap she would remember from her khala’s lessons.

“Aw, no way,” Mel said, craning her neck. “You’re not seriously working right now?”

“It’s just notes,” Riya said quickly, angling the page away.

“You’re allowed to be a human being, you know.”

“Not right now, I’m not.”

“How about this?” Kian stepped in. “For every ten minutes of work, you have to spend ten minutes not working.”

“Why would I agree to that?”

“Because you’ve been running on fumes since . . . well, probably forever.”

Riya opened her mouth, but no words came. He wasn’t wrong.

“There isn’t time for rest,” she muttered. “You of all people know that.”

After they’d left the bookstore, his nose had bled for nearly ten minutes. No matter how many tissues they packed against it, it wouldn’t stop.

“I know.” Kian’s smile was soft. “But half a day won’t kill you.”

But it could kill you, a cynical voice said in the back of her head.

“Plus, if you don’t agree,” he continued, “you don’t get to see the amazing lunch I made us.”

Mel gasped. “Us? You mean me, too?”

“Hell yeah.” Kian gestured to his backpack. “Top-tier sandwiches. I even cut the fruit into shapes.”

“You’re my new best friend,” Mel declared. “After Riya, obviously.”

Riya inhaled, filling her lungs with the crisp autumn air, faintly sweet with the scent of fallen leaves. But it didn’t untangle

the dread twisting through her thoughts.

“Wanna race up the steps?” Kian asked, bouncing on his toes.

“But I’ll get all sweaty!” Mel protested.

“Andrew’s here. You were gonna get sweaty anyway.” He turned to Riya, smiling. “I can’t even remember the last time I came

to the museum. You did good, Professor.”

The praise landed on her, unexpectedly warm.

Before she could reply, Kian took off with Mel—both of them cackling as they raced up the stairs.

The three of them explored the museum together, weaving between clusters of tourists and stopping to point out their favorite pieces. Sometimes, Kian and Mel made up ridiculous backstories about them.

“This artist was totally intimidated by this lady,” Kian said, gesturing toward a somber portrait. “See how he used chiaroscuro?”

“Do you even know what chiaroscuro means?” Mel asked.

“Of course. It’s the thing with the shadows and . . . stuff. Right, Riya?”

“More about contrast, I think.” She was barely paying attention. The dry museum air tickled her nose, but beneath that was

the itch she couldn’t shake: time bleeding away, faster and faster, while they wasted precious hours on oil paintings. Part

of her had hoped that maybe the museum would have a peri artifact, but she supposed life never worked that neatly. Plus, what

would a peri artifact even look like? A mummified broken heart, maybe?

They moved on, laughter trailing behind them, until they found Albert Gleizes’s Woman at the Piano: A cubist figure built of cold knife cuts and tilted planes, a chaotic smear of white and blue against bright red. She sat

upright at the keys, taut—as if a chord were being held too long.

Kian slowed, his breath hitching.

Riya nearly bumped into him. She followed his gaze to the fractured figure.

“Are you . . . okay?” she asked, lowering her voice.

“Yeah. I’m just worried the art museum will try to keep you.”

“I’m serious.”

He smiled. “Worried about me?”

She looked away. “I’m regretting it.”

Kian’s smile widened.

They stood a moment longer, the hush thickening. Riya stared again at the woman’s squared shoulders, how it echoed Kian’s

guarded posture. She hadn’t realized how much his mother’s leaving had affected him. And for the first time, she felt an unwelcome

tug—not just to untangle the curse, but to dig beneath it all. To see how deep it went. Maybe to ease it, if she could.

After all, that’s what friends did.

Mel’s voice broke the hush, tugging at her sleeve. “Come on, you two. There’s a Monet up ahead, and it’s not going to stare

wistfully at itself.”

Riya followed, their footsteps echoing against the marble floors.

At Japanese Footbridge and the Water Lily Pool, Giverny, they stopped. The soft blues bled into one another, like the painting were dissolving into itself.

“Now’s a good time, right?” Mel whispered. “To talk to Andrew?”

“Definitely.” Kian rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I’ll lure him over. I’ll text him that there’s an incredible painting he

has to see.”

Riya raised an eyebrow. “He’ll ditch his friends for a painting?”

“Don’t underestimate the power of curiosity.”

Mel bit her lip. “Okay. And then what?”

“Then it’s up to you.” Kian shrugged. “Talk about the painting. Tell him it reminded you of him. But I guess you should pick

a painting, first.”

Mel’s eyes lit up. “Oh! Sunflowers! I’ll meet him in front of Sunflowers by Van Gogh. They remind me of him—because he’s so sunny and bright, and they’re sunny and bright. . . .”

“Done,” Kian said, already on his phone. A few seconds later, he grinned. “He’s on his way.”

“Oh my God.” Mel clasped her cheeks. “I can’t. I’m scared!”

“The painting’s close by,” Kian said, steering them toward the next gallery. “We’ll wait there with you. It’ll be fine.”

As they approached Sunflowers, its vibrant hues glowed under the museum lights. It was smaller than Riya had imagined, but the flowers seemed to sway in

a nonexistent summer breeze.

Together, the three of them waited for Andrew in tense silence, until—

“Riya, Riya, Riya, Riyaaaa!” a voice sang from behind them.

Riya’s shoulders tensed at the familiar tune, a wave of irritation washing over her as she turned to see Quin splitting off from their group of friends, grin mischief-wide—then dimmed at Riya’s glare. “Please stop looking at me like you’re cataloging all the ways you could kill me.”

“I refuse,” Riya replied. As usual, Quin’s sense of timing was the worst.

Quin’s attention slid to Kian. “Kian Kho out on a field trip—a rare sighting.”

Riya stepped half a pace in front of Kian. Quin missed nothing—especially when it came to her. Lately, they’d been watching

Kian, too. Not with suspicion, exactly. More like amusement. Like they’d caught the scent of something strange and couldn’t help prodding it. The same way they had during dodgeball.

“Interesting.” Quin’s glance darted between them. “And you’re enjoying yourself, Miss VP?”

“It’s fine,” Riya said shortly, adjusting the notebook under her arm.

“So prickly!” Quin crooned. “And here I just came to congratulate you. I’ll admit, I was skeptical. I mean, a museum field trip? For seniors? Especially when we had a hundred better options. Like a theme park. Beach. A cruise. Trip to a private

island—”

“I get it.”

“But look at this,” Quin waved at the room. “It’s charming. Educational. And very you.”

Riya couldn’t tell whether it was a compliment or an insult?

“Just how do you do it? Student Council, field trips, managing . . .” Quin’s gaze flicked to Kian again. “Everything.”

That was the moment Riya felt it shift. Kian’s mood, curdling. The easy warmth from earlier—gone. Replaced by something tight and

electric, simmering just beneath his skin.

Her chest cinched tightly.

And for a flicker of a second, she saw Kian as he used to be. Or rather, how she used to see him: the boy everyone avoided.

The boy who’d gotten into fights, snarled at teachers, wrecked Mel’s science project without blinking.

“Anyway,” Riya interrupted, trying to redirect, “we’re waiting for someone at the moment, so if you could just—”

“Ah, there you are,” said Andrew, strolling up.

Mel let out a tiny squeak, darting behind Riya.

“Odd little group,” Andrew remarked cheerfully. He smiled at Mel. “Hi, Mel.”

“We’re going to head to the next exhibit,” Riya announced. “I really want to check out the, uh, sword exhibit, but Mel—you

said you wanted to keep looking at Sunflowers, right?”

Mel blinked rapidly. “Oh! Yes. I did say that,” she spluttered. “I, um, really like Van Gogh.”

Andrew grinned. “I like Van Gogh, too. Bit of a sorry sort, though. Isn’t he the one who cut off his ear?”

“Just the earlobe, I think,” Mel said faintly.

“I heard he ate yellow paint because he thought it would make him happy,” Quin added.

“Swords!” Riya said abruptly. “We should look at swords. Except for Mel and Andrew, who should look at Sunflowers. Alone.” She glanced at Kian.

“Riya, you look tense.” Quin tilted their head. “Everything okay?”

Before she could answer, Andrew said. “Actually, while you’re both here, I had a question about Prom. Have you decided on

the theme yet?”

Mel straightened, her hopeful gaze stuck to Andrew like Velcro.

Of course. Student Council was supposed to finalize a theme by next week. Which would have happened already if Quin hadn’t

dragged their feet the entire process with talk of needing “creative mood boarding,” which really just meant Quin drawing rude caricatures of every member of Student Council on the whiteboard.

“Ah,” they said, scratching their chin. “Asking the hard-hitting questions here.”

“It wouldn’t be so hard-hitting if we’d started brainstorming earlier,” Riya muttered.

“Well, if you haven’t landed on a theme yet,” Kian said suddenly, “why not outer space?”

Riya turned toward him, startled. He wasn’t even looking at the others. Just her. Soft and sincere.

Quin’s brow arched. “Oh? A nod to our resident astrophysicist?”

“What if it is?” Kian replied.

“What a sweet boyfriend you are.”

“It’s a nice idea, Kian,” interjected Riya, “but we can’t do a theme just because I’d like it.” She added, under her breath: “And, for the record, he’s not my boyfriend.”

Quin eyes gleamed. “See, that’s the thing. Even this—Prom—somehow becomes about your feelings for Riya. But are you really

thinking about what she wants? Or do you plan to keep making public choices that pin unwanted attention on her?”

Mel bristled. “Quin—”

“What are you getting at?” Kian fists curled.

“Nothing, nothing!” Quin blinked innocently. “I just think that when someone’s already under a lot of stress, even well-intended

attention can feel like . . . pressure. And it’d be a shame if someone didn’t keep that in mind simply because they think

the world’s their stage.”

“You don’t know anything about our relationship,” said Kian, voice low.

Quin’s catlike smile sharpened. “What relationship? Looks pretty one-sided to me. One would almost think you’re under a love spell.”

Riya twitched. Their words hit a little too close to home.

But Kian only smiled back, brittle. “Are you asking for a fight?”

“Ah, see, now you’re proving my point.”

“Wait—” Riya started, but her eyes stung. She rubbed at the dust biting behind her glasses.

Kian turned, alarmed. “Are you—are you crying?”

“No,” said Riya. “It’s just dust—”

He exhaled hard.

And in one sharp motion, he stepped over the velvet rope and yanked one of the stanchion poles from the floor.

Gasps rippled from the gallery.

“I don’t care if I look ridiculous to any of you,” he said, louder now. “None of that matters.” He turned toward Quin, gripping

the pole like a weapon. His eyes flickered gold. “I’d fight anyone if that’s what it takes to prove how much I care.”

“Whoa, easy.” Quin stepped back, hands raised. “Let’s not get carried away. How about we all take some nice meditative breaths

and put the pole down?”

“Then you should have kept your mouth shut,” said Kian, deadly calm.

“Excuse me!” called the nearby security guard. “Put that down or you’ll be removed!”

Riya’s heart thundered against her ribs.

Fear rose, not just for him. Of him. And of the terrifying future he was hurtling toward.

“Enough!” Her voice cracked like a whip.

The group fell silent. Even the security guard paused mid-step.

“I asked you to control yourself, Kian,” Riya said. “It was the one thing I asked, again and again. Have you ever stopped to think that maybe Quin is right? That every time you go off the deep

end, it affects me, too?”

For a moment, he just looked at her, eyes blank.

Then Kian buckled, his shoulders sagging like the fight had drained from his bones.

“But I—I didn’t start it,” he whispered. “I wasn’t the one—Riya, you saw it. I tried. I tried not to fight. But they always push.”

Riya stared at him, ribs cinching. “Kian . . . ?”

He lifted his head. Eyes red-rimmed, disoriented. “Please don’t look at me like everyone else,” he whispered. “Please.”

A knot of guilt coiled painfully in her chest. Because she had looked at him that way. Because she wasn’t sure, even now, if she’d fully stopped.

And yet, was any of this even his fault?

“Kian, I—”

He set the stanchion down; the base rang against the marble. Then he bolted, like something was chasing him. Or worse: like

he was the thing everyone else should run from.

A heavy silence settled over the room. Riya felt every pair of eyes swing toward her, but she couldn’t look up. Couldn’t move.

The gallery felt colder now, as if all the warmth Kian carried with him had been dragged out, too.

Finally, Andrew cleared his throat.

“Well,” he said, “at least the painting’s pretty.”