Chapter 20
My heart breaks having to say goodbye to my family and Noah again. Their visit was far too short. But I’d be lying to myself if I didn’t admit that I’ve been too distracted since bumping into Phantom to appreciate my time with them properly.
“We’ll be back to pick you up for Thanksgiving break, Bug,” Dad says while buckling Everly into her car seat.
“Sounds good,” I reply, swallowing hard against the knot of emotion growing in my throat.
“We’re so proud of you, sweetie,” Mom sniffles as she admires the ruby-colored, first-place ribbon in my hand again. “You came here to chase after your dreams, and here you are, achieving them.”
My cheeks flush. “I couldn’t do it without your support.”
I hug her one final time before she climbs in the car. Then Mom and Dad shut their doors, giving Noah and me some small semblance of privacy.
“I’ll try to come back to visit before Thanksgiving,” he says, a pained expression curving his handsome features downward.
“It’s fine if you can’t,” I start, gaze falling to the dried mud flaking off my shoes. “I know this time of year is busy for you, with baseball and all the gaming tournaments.”
“I don’t care about the tournaments,” Noah huffs indignantly. “We’re okay, right?”
When I finally raise my face to catch his gaze again, his blue eyes are solemn.
“Yeah, we’re okay,” I say as I roll up onto the balls of my feet. “We’re more than okay.”
He grins, relieved, and kisses me. It’s not a chaste peck, but it’s not nearly long enough either.
“See you soon.”
I wait until their taillights blink out of view before I venture back to the festival.
I hadn’t consciously made the decision to go back there tonight, especially not dressed in this ridiculous costume, but I’m compelled to, for reasons beyond my comprehension.
I toss the cheap wooden frame hanging around my neck in the garbage the first opportunity I get, and I shiver as the temperature drops lower and lower the closer to midnight it gets.
That’s when the festival ends—midnight.
I have to find them again before then.
I rub the palms of my hands together swiftly, trying to banish the chill from them, but it’s no good.
Starting from one end of the festival, I make my way down to the other, revisiting every booth, ride, and food stand, to no avail.
Phantom is nowhere to be found. And something tells me blindly calling out their name in this crowd wouldn’t help at all.
“Maeve, hey!” a voice calls out behind me.
Hopeful, I turn too quickly, nearly losing my balance and tripping over my own feet. But my gaze falls upon Iris and Claire, not Phantom.
“Hey,” I reply, plastering a half-baked attempt at a smile on my face.
“Why are you all alone?” Claire asks, brows furrowing.
Iris frowns before chiming in, “Yeah, isn’t your family visiting?”
“They were, but they just left. I’m just back here to—” the lie comes to me quickly “—pick up my contest painting. I don’t want it getting ruined in the shuffle.”
“Do you need help?” Claire offers kindly.
“No,” I say a little too quickly. “No, thank you. I’ll be fine. You two have fun.”
“All right,” Iris replies. “I’ll see you back in our room.”
“Yeah. See you.”
Sighing as they walk away, I try to gather my thoughts, but anxiety makes them scatter on the wind. I don’t know why I feel so determined to find Phantom again tonight, but I do, desperately, and so I collect myself and decide to just roll with it. My intuition won’t lead me astray.
When I make it to the final section of the festival, the area with the display walls, I notice half of them are already empty.
The school staff must already be packing everything up for the night.
Weaving through the rows, I admire the remaining art illuminated on the walls.
Many of them are good, but only a few of them are great.
I stop before an especially beautiful one, the aesthetic dark and mysterious.
I don’t really understand the painting’s connection to the prompt we were given, but it’s mesmerizing all the same.
“You picked a good one,” a voice that I now recognize says next to me, as if it had materialized out of thin air.
“Phantom,” I exclaim, taking a startled step back.
Stepping back as well, they say, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”
I shake my head, closing some of the distance between us. “I—I was hoping I’d find you again.”
“I was hoping you’d come looking.” The way their heavy-lidded eyes squint when they’re smiling is quickly becoming familiar, but now, looking at them head-on, I realize how slight the difference really is. If you didn’t know to look for it, you’d miss it entirely.
“I wanted to thank you,” I blurt out, willing the sudden heat in my cheeks to recede.
“It was nothing, really. I enjoyed painting the piece,” they respond.
My pulse roars in my ears as I mutter, “No. I don’t mean for the matching panel.”
“Then what for?”
Phantom’s gaze is piercing. So much so, I swear I can feel their eyes sweep across my face like a cool breeze. I guess this stupid face paint was good for something after all. It gratefully hides all the blushing, which around a true artist like Phantom is humiliatingly inevitable.
“For being an inspiration to me all these years,” I say softly. “Without you, I doubt I’d even be painting right now, or at Lizbeth for that matter.”
I watch them tense at my words, and suddenly, I worry I’ve offended them.
“I’m sorry if that’s weird. I mean, I totally get how crazy that might sound coming from a total stranger. But I just . . . wanted you to know, I guess.”
“You’ve been an inspiration to me too.”
Like a finger beneath my chin, their words guide my eyes back to theirs. The candor I find there burns my skin for an entirely different reason.
I don’t know how to respond, so silence envelops us. It’s awkward at first, but after the initial shock of it, it mellows and quickly becomes comfortable. More comfortable than I could have believed possible with someone I just met.
Several moments pass as we stare at the painting before us. Then I notice Phantom shuffling from foot to foot and rolling their shoulders back, as if to release a tension that’s accumulated there. “You okay?” I ask. “It’s really cold outside.”
“Fine,” Phantom grunts brusquely. Their mood seems to have soured in an instant.
“Okay, um, I guess I’ll just get going then. I don’t mean to bother you.”
I’m three steps away when Phantom asks, “Without your painting?”
“Oh, right.” I cringe.
Why am I always such a babbling idiot around them?
“I have it right here,” they say, gesturing to a large, rectangular canvas bag leaning against the display wall behind us.
A few feet away like this, I can finally appreciate Phantom.
They’re several inches taller than me, wearing dark wash denim and a black winter coat over the same white hoodie from the roof.
The hood lays across their shoulders tonight, exposing a mess of brow-length, ink-black waves and a dazzle of earrings lining the edge of their ears to the moonlight.
The cloth mask is the same as it’s always been, still smiling.
I wonder if they’re a germaphobe? Why else would they wear a mask like that all the time?
“Thanks,” I mutter, returning to claim the oversized bag.
After a moment’s hesitation, they offer, “I’ll carry it for you.”
“Okay,” I reply lamely, my mind still reeling as they toss the handle over their shoulder.
With that, Phantom turns on their heel and starts walking in the direction of the dorms.
Silence consumes us once more.
I’m itching to say something, to start up a conversation, but I can’t think of anything clever or witty to say. So, instead, I settle for the truth. “I found my favorite painting of yours on my first day here.”
“Hmm?” they ask distractedly, as if they hadn’t fully registered what I’d said.
I must have drawn them out of a deep thought.
“The bird,” I explain. “On the side of the Monet building.”
“Ah, right.”
I hesitate, but only for a beat. “I’m sorry if you hate questions like this, but I have to ask.
What were you trying to convey with that particular piece?
” I cringe again at the wondrous lilt in my voice.
If I don’t get myself under control soon, they’re going to think I’m a raging fangirl––even if I am.
“Oh, for that one?” Phantom considers for a moment, gaze lifting to the sky. “If I had to describe it with one word, I guess it’d be exhaustion.”
I fist pump the air before I even realize I’d done it. Phantom stops mid-stride and stares at me, eyes wide and questioning.
“Oh my—sorry.” I flush crimson beneath the face paint. “I was just, uh, happy I got close.”
Phantom smiles with their eyes again and continues walking. I’m grateful that I haven’t embarrassed myself beyond redemption as they ask, “What do you feel when you see it?”
I begin to feel dizzy. “It reminds me of how burnout feels.”
Phantom nods slowly but doesn’t answer.
Glancing sidelong at them, I study their profile. Long straight nose, defined jaw, high cheekbones peeking out over the mask, all illuminated by silver moonlight.
They’re breathtaking, I realize with a sudden clarity that makes my stomach hurt.
“So, I know Phantom is your pseudonym, but what’s your real name?” I ask, as I force my attention back to the path before us.
Phantom remains silent, their gaze locked ahead.
Maybe they didn’t hear me.
I’m about to repeat the question when I hear them murmur something under their breath. It sounds a lot like ‘quiet’ to me and, like a reflex, my mouth snaps shut.
When we approach my dorm a few minutes later, I’m horribly, unbearably racked with guilt.
Tripping over my words, I say, “I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable.”
Phantom looks at me, brows pinched in confusion. “You didn’t.”
“Oh.” Now, I’m confused.
Phantom sets the canvas bag against the concrete wall behind me and starts to turn away.
“Wait,” I call, and miraculously, they pause. “When can we hang out again?”
They shake their head back and forth quickly. The gesture looks different than a denial, more like they’re trying to shake away an intrusive thought.
“I mean—I’m being presumptuous. Of course you wouldn’t want to hang out with—”
Their gaze claims mine, silencing me in an instant. “Tomorrow night.”
My neck hurts from the whiplash that is this entire conversation, but I feel myself beaming anyway. Phantom wants to hang out again, with me! “Yeah. Sure. Great.”
“Maeve,” Phantom begins. I pause the celebratory dance party in my head and force myself to listen. “I’m not good.” A long pause. “With people, I mean.”
“We’re artists, Phantom,” I reply. “Pretty sure that’s kinda normal.”
They bob their chin once. “Right.”
“So . . . see you tomorrow?” I ask hopefully.
“Yeah, see you tomorrow. I’ll pick you up here after class.” Then, they turn and fade into the darkness.
The only remaining trace of them is the lightness in my step.