Phantom

Chapter 23

After the night we went to the gallery, Phantom disappears. I don’t see them around town or on campus, and they don’t return any of my texts. I’ve held back, trying not to bog them down with messages, but it’s been three whole days without any word from them and I’m officially concerned.

“What’s got you in a spiral?” Emmy asks as she paints at the easel next to me in class. “I can feel your thoughts racing from all the way over here.”

I huff a breath, blowing stray strands of hair from my face. “It’s nothing. Just worried about someone.”

“Someone from back home?”

“Yeah,” I lie as I lower my paintbrush, choosing to be done for the day. “They haven’t been texting me back.”

“Any reason to think something bad happened to them?” she asks, turning to face me with concern etched into her delicate features.

I consider that for a moment.

“No, I don’t think so,” I finally say, trying my best to ignore the sudden onset of tightness in my chest. “They’re the type of person that you can only get a hold of if they want to be contacted.” I sigh. “Obviously, if I can’t reach them, they don’t want me getting in touch with them right now.”

That realization hurts. Far more than I’m comfortable admitting.

“Well, if they’re ignoring you, it’s their loss,” Emmy says.

“Thanks.” I offer her a weak smile as I gather up my supplies.

When I’m finished cleaning and packing up my stuff, I wave goodbye to Emmy, who’s still hard at work. “I’ll see you later tonight.”

“See ya.”

My mood deteriorates as I trek across campus, ruminating further on my epiphany as the cold breeze burns the tips of my exposed ears.

Phantom doesn’t want to see me.

If they did, they would contact me, or come to my dorm, or find me between classes. But I haven’t heard a peep from them. That should tell me everything I need to know.

The simmering nausea that has been roiling my gut over the past few days also tells me something important. Something I’ve been feeling sickeningly guilty about—my evolving feelings for Phantom, which, after our trip to the gallery, have become much more intense.

But for them to just up and disappear like this, it’s obvious I read too much into our friendship.

We’ve only hung out a couple of times, after all.

Maybe they’ve decided they don’t like me much.

Maybe I’m annoying. Or maybe they’ve realized I’m not in the same league as them with my art.

I’m inferior, and they’ve finally figured it out.

My fists clench at my sides as I round on the north side of the Rembrandt Building.

The brick wall is sliced in half by a block of large windows, stretching from one side of the building to the other.

Inside are some of the student art studios.

Trying to distract myself from my freshly dug pit of despair, I watch the row of students work as I walk by.

The student in the first studio sketches, while the student in the second sculpts.

I barely register the third, until my gaze snags on the painting they’re working on.

It’s a striking portrait of a profile. A profile of a girl with shoulder length, messy brown hair, dark green eyes, and faded freckles.

The corners of her mouth are downturned, and tears flow freely from her eyes.

I’m so shocked I almost trip over my own feet. The girl in the portrait looks disturbingly like me.

Who the hell is painting this?

My gaze shifts to the painter. Their back is to the window, and their choice of loose, androgynous clothing gives nothing of their identity away. Even their hair is covered by a moss-green knit beanie. I honestly have no idea who it is.

Red hot annoyance sparks in my gut, but just as I march up to the window with my fist raised to knock against the glass and demand their attention, the painter stands from their stool and wipes their hands with a rag.

Long, slender fingers raise to remove the beanie from their head, revealing a mess of shiny, raven hair.

I watch as they sweep the mop of waves up into the tiniest ponytail I’ve ever seen, swiftly tying it off with a rubber band.

The shorter strands tumble out of their rubber restraint, framing the painter’s face—Phantom’s face—in the most infuriatingly adorable way.

My fist falls from view; it’s all I can do to continue watching them in a daze.

They bob their head as they mix paint on a palette, and shuffle rhythmically from foot to foot as they stand before the canvas, then as they turn back around, I notice their lips moving beneath their mask, in time with a beat only they can hear.

They’re listening to music, singing and shuffling along while they paint.

For a moment, they look . . . not happy, exactly, but peaceful, perhaps?

I’ve never seen them look like this before—completely relaxed and untroubled.

I don’t know what to do. Or how to feel.

Phantom is painting a portrait of a girl that looks far too similar to me. And yet, they aren’t returning my texts.

What does that mean?

Am I just some kind of creative outlet for them? Something they needed to get out of their system? Or are they as excited about our friendship as I am, and something just happened to their phone?

I guess there’s only one way to find out.

With freezing hands, I pull my phone from my pocket and thumb the screen with more force than necessary.

The shrill ring of the dial tone drowns out the rush of my pulse as I watch Phantom’s reaction.

They turn from the canvas when they hear their phone go off.

Unhurried, they set down their supplies, wipe their hands again, and walk to a small desk in the corner of the room.

I slip further away from the window, not wanting to be caught spying.

My breath stalls as Phantom picks up their phone and stares at the screen.

Ring.

Ring.

Ring.

Silence.

Phantom declines the call and twists toward the canvas once more.

The expression on their masked face sends my anger floating away on the wind. Their gaze looks . . . pained. Like they’re in actual, physical pain. It doesn’t make any sense.

Why?

Why would they paint something that causes them so much pain? And why does the source of their pain look so much like me?

I don’t have all the answers, but now, at least, I have one.

Phantom’s ignoring me.

Hot tears scald my cheeks as I storm off toward my dorm. As I stew, I try to convince myself it’s for the best. Being friends with Phantom was making me feel . . . too much, anyway. It wasn’t a normal friendship. I know that.

So, then, why is my body craving those feelings more than oxygen right now?

My sour mood persists, and at the moment, on the phone with Noah, he’s on the receiving end of it.

“Why are you so angry with me?” Noah asks, his tone indignant.

I sigh as I look around the quad, now dressed in the vibrant hues of autumn thanks to a fresh coat of fallen leaves. “I’m not angry. I’m sorry. I’m just in a bad mood.”

“That’s all right, it’s just—”

“What?”

“Everything feels off,” Noah explains, exasperated. “One day you’re happy, the next you’re down, and now you’re angry. And you’re not giving me the full story. I have no idea what’s going on with you.”

“I—” But I don’t know what to say.

“Are you even happy at Lizbeth?” he asks, voice softening.

“I love my friends, the campus, my professors, the art . . .”

“But?”

Do I tell Noah about Phantom?

I feel like I should because I hate the thought of keeping another secret from him. And yet, I have this insanely irrational impulse to keep them all to myself, to not share them with anyone else, even verbally. I’ve never felt like this about anyone before, and it makes my skin crawl.

“But nothing,” I say while I itch at my scalp with an overgrown fingernail. “I’m just tired. I’m sorry you’re getting caught in the crossfire, babe.”

Noah sighs in resignation. “That’s okay.”

I smile, though it’s paper thin. I’m grateful Noah can’t see it.

“You have to get to class, right?” he asks, reminding me of the time.

“Shit, yeah. I’ll call you later, okay?”

“Okay. Love you.”

“You too.”

After we hang up, I weave through small groups of students as I jog back to the Dalí Building. As I’m ascending the steps, I hear my name called out behind me. “Maeve!”

I turn to find Claire’s younger brother, Joey, jogging toward me. He’s one year younger, a freshman, but they look so close in age they could easily be mistaken for fraternal twins.

“Hi, Joey,” I offer in greeting as he bounds up the steps to reach me. “What’s up?”

His red hair glistens in the pale afternoon light. “Claire wanted me to ask if you’d stop by her dorm room later this afternoon. She’s got a project she wants your opinion on.”

“My opinion?” My eyebrows creep toward my hairline.

“Yup. I guess Iris has been talking you up. She’s really excited to show you what she’s been working on.”

“That’s nice of her.” I let a chuckle escape as a gust of wind blows past us, tossing the leaves about our feet like little tumbleweeds. “Tell her I’ll come by right after class.”

“Great. Thanks,” he says before his gaze shifts to my hair. “Sorry, but you’ve got a leaf in your—”

Joey’s hand reaches out to assist me, but an inch away, his hand stops—or rather, is stopped. Time moves in slow motion as my gaze swings to Phantom, and I see their hand encasing Joey’s wrist, swiftly removing his arm from my personal space. “Don’t.”

I gasp at the wickedness in their tone, at the shadows haunting their eyes. Goosebumps erupt along my skin, causing me to shiver. But whether from fear or delight, I have no idea.

“Uh—sorry. My bad,” Joey stammers as he steps away, angling his body toward the bottom of the steps. “I’ll let Claire know you’re coming. Bye, Maeve.”

And then he’s gone, jogging away at a curiously fast pace. I stare after him for a moment before whirling on Phantom.

They’re staring at me, at the leaf stuck in my hair, with .

. . longing. My breath turns languid, and time slows again.

They raise their hand toward it tentatively, as if they’d like to remove themself, but at the last moment, they simply point, gesturing with a single finger to where I should move my own hand.

The darkness in their eyes is gone now, replaced by something unreadable.

My anger flares anew as I swat the leaf away. “What was hell was that?”

I’m glaring up at them, and yet, I can’t convince my body to move away. The faintest hint of mint floats in the air between us, and I don’t know how much longer I can ignore how the scent sends my toes curling in my boots.

“Sorry,” they mutter. “I interrupted.”

As if that’s an acceptable answer.

“I don’t care about that,” I scoff. “Well, I mean, I guess I kind of do, but I care more that you’ve been ignoring me for days.”

Phantom looks away, their eyes downcast and teeming with guilt. “I warned you. I’m not good with people. This—” they gesture to the space between us “—doesn’t come naturally to me.”

“Having a friend?” I ask incredulously. But the word ‘friend’ feels like caulk on my tongue.

Phantom nods.

“So, we still are, then? Friends?”

Phantom meets my eye, their wide gaze full of naive innocence. “I hope so. If you’ll forgive me for being . . . inexperienced.”

I can’t help but laugh. “I’m sorry, that’s just too—”

Cute. God, they’re not just cute, they’re—

Phantom looks away again, moving to leave, but I grab their coat sleeve, halting them. “Friends don’t ignore each other. If they’re struggling with something, they talk it out. They don’t hide away and deal with it on their own. Okay?”

When they search my face, I hope they find sincerity, because I mean those words more than I know how to express.

“Okay.” Phantom’s eyes smile as I drop their sleeve.

Peeling my gaze away from theirs, I wonder, and not for the first time, Should friends look at each other the way we do?