Chapter 7
It’s the poisoned lamb stew nightmare. The table is already set when I arrive, the bowl steaming in front of me. The room is all dark wood and candlelight, the air close, my corset pulled tight enough to make each breath a struggle.
Sometimes, even in the thick of this nightmare, the world feels too real to be a dream.
The table’s rough grain under my fingers, the rich and metallic scent of the stew.
And threaded through it all is a quiet, unnerving sense that I’ve been here before.
That I’ve lived it, as though this moment is a memory.
I eat my third bite of meat and onion broth, and the unbearable cramping of my muscles and stomach begins. It hurts, god, it hurts, but right now, instead of the terror, I’m just aching for it to be over. Finally, I think as I collapse to the floor.
The moment my heart stops beating, I open my eyes and heave a long, weighty sigh. The dorm room is still dark. Scrubbing my face, I sit up in bed to check the time: four a.m. I glance over at Delia’s bed, even though I know it’ll be empty. She’s still out with Amber.
Alone in the dark, I’m suddenly struck by the memory of Hayden’s dark gaze lingering on my bare neck in the library courtyard. The strange storm in his eyes when he murmured Rose. A shiver courses through my body. I crush my face into my pillow, letting out a low, pained sound.
See, this is how far gone, how totally screwed, I am. Because even when I’m dreaming of dying from poisoned meat, there’s only one thing my brain wants to think about right now.
“Hayden,” I whisper, because I want to hear it again.
Here is what I know: The boy who saved me last year is real. His name is Hayden. But he insists he doesn’t know me, that he wasn’t on that bridge.
So why is he lying? Why run from me in the library, only to appear in the courtyard minutes later like nothing happened? Why is he even at Payen?
I should’ve gone off on him. Demanded answers. Made him explain what he’s hiding. Instead, I just stood there, caught in the gravity of him: the way his voice settled under my skin, the way his gaze lit a fire deep inside me.
He is hiding something. I know he is. So why does it feel less like I’m being pushed away and more like I’m being pulled in?
I check the time again. It’s six a.m. Two hours? I’ve been lying here angsting, tossing, and turning for two hours about a boy? I throw the covers off me and hop out of bed, smacking at my cheeks to wake myself up.
I’m exhausted, unbelievably so, but I know that there’s no way I’m falling back asleep now. I wish Delia were here. She’d know what to say, have the perfect idea for a distraction. As it is, that’s up to me now.
Something I’ve happily discovered about college life: It’s perfect for insomniacs.
No matter what hour it is, someone’s always up.
It’s soothing to hear someone humming in the shower down the hall in the middle of the night.
The dining hall is open until midnight, and depending on your major, many buildings on campus are accessible twenty-four seven if you have the building code.
During our second painting class, Julian gave us the code to the arts building.
“So those of you who want to improve can take the opportunity to practice in the studio. And believe me, some of you should take that opportunity.” Julian didn’t glance my way, hadn’t once since that awful first day of class, but his words still stung.
Well, joke’s on him. Painting sounds pretty wonderful right now, actually. I’ve spent my life as an observer, marveling at images like a movie: The spill of bright pink raspberry ice cream on my mother’s white sweater. Her beaming smile as she held me close, the silver filaments in her hair.
I never thought I’d like creating the images myself. I never thought I’d be good at it. I’m not, yet, but I love putting the pieces together, taking the simplicity of red and orange and blue and making something I can recognize.
And if I go to the studio now, I can do this in blissful solitude, without the scrape of Julian’s flinty-eyed judgment.
I take five minutes to shower away the nightmare sweat, French braiding my wet hair. I dress quickly, pulling on jeans and my favorite sweater, borrowing Delia’s charcoal peacoat (“I have three, and it looks better on you anyway”).
By the time I step outside, I’m feeling a little bit better.
Campus is quiet in the early dawn. Peaceful.
I’ve dressed for the brisk early morning, so the cool air isn’t punishing, but cleansing.
I can still smell the hint of burning wood in the air.
As I walk across campus, taking deep breaths, it’s infinitely easier to clear my head.
When I get to the arts building, I punch the code into the keypad by the front doors.
A thrill rushes through me when the light turns green and the door buzzes.
I’m a real college student, using a secret code to get into a real college building!
It’s a silly thought, but I’m giddy all the same as I walk into the dark lobby, the hallways lit only with emergency lights.
I set my bag on a side table when I get to the studio.
I tie on my painting apron and set to work gathering my materials.
After deliberating in front of the shelves of acrylic and oil paints and glazes for a good ten minutes, I finally know what I want to paint.
I gather the colors I want, the brushes and mason jar of water, and set up my workspace.
There’s a peek of pink in the sky outside by the time I’m putting in my earbuds and mixing my first color. This will be tricky, so it’ll take all my concentration. Which is exactly what I need.
Mom used to tell me there was a difference between loneliness and solitude.
I’m feeling it now: how good my own company can be.
When the brush whispers against the canvas, leaving the exact shade of magenta I wanted, I feel the corner of my mouth lift.
Maybe this is why I’ve taken to painting too.
It’s made it easier to become friends with myself.
“Are you painting a pigeon?”
I gasp, startling so badly, my earbuds fall out and I knock my elbow into my jar of mud-colored water. Julian manages to grab it before it shatters on the ground. He shoots me an apologetic look.
“Sorry.” He carefully sets the mason jar back on my small side table.
“I should have flashed the lights. That’s how Professor Brown gets my attention when I’m in the zone.
” Julian stoops to pick up my earbuds off the scuffed tile, offering them to me with a tiny, closed-mouthed smile.
Dazed, I pluck them from his fingers, and he takes a small step back, shoving his hands in his pockets.
The last time Julian Hughes addressed me this directly, he was basically telling me I’m a disgrace to the name of art. He hasn’t looked at me since. Needless to say, I’m caught a little off guard.
“I…” I turn to my canvas, frowning at the narrow splash of glossy violet, cerulean, and Payne’s grey. “Yeah. My version of a pigeon, anyway.”
“I could tell.” The room’s so quiet that when he rubs his chin, I can hear the soft scratch of the faint scruff lining his jaw. He’s usually clean shaven.
Not that I’m looking too closely.
“Why a pigeon?” He crosses his arms and nods his chin at my canvas.
I stare at my iridescent blob of paint for a minute. “Recently, I learned that pigeons are pretty misunderstood. They used to carry messages across wars, and now everyone acts like they’re a nuisance.”
“Never really thought about that,” Julian says quietly. “I suppose they deserve better.”
I don’t know why, but this makes me angry. Why does he think he can be so nice to me right now, like he didn’t completely ruin my very first day of college? I reach behind my back and untie my apron.
“Of course they do.” I shoot to my feet, stool scraping. Julian, surprised, blinks at me as I gather the paint, brushes, and mason jar in my arms. I dump everything into the sink and begin to scrub at my paint-splattered hands.
“Rose.”
I go still. A memory of another boy saying my name flickers like a firefly in my belly. I quickly shake the thought away. Julian walks over and gently turns the water off.
“I owe you an apology.” He fiddles with one of the dirty brushes scattered in the sink.
“I was a terrible prick to you that first day of class. I was nervous. Professor Brown’s brilliant.
I wanted to prove that I have what it takes to lead this class.
That I’m worthy to…” He winces, drops the brush.
“I shouldn’t have said what I said, and I should have said sorry sooner. ”
“Why didn’t you?” I say softly.
“Because I was embarrassed? Awkward? Total rubbish? All of the above?” Julian gives me a shy, crooked grin. It’s distracting. So is the rest of Julian, though, so I choose to study my fingers instead of meeting his eyes.
“Not gonna lie,” I say. “You…are not exactly what I pictured when I imagined my professors.”
“That’s because I’m not. I’m your TA.” He sighs. “I’m not even old enough to drink in the US yet.”
“Seriously?” I knew he was young, but not this young.
“Don’t get me started. I was gutted when I remembered the drinking age here. Won’t matter soon. Turning twenty-one in a month.”
“Same!” I laugh, shaking my head. “I mean, not twenty-one. I turn nineteen.”
“Ah. You’re a November babe too.”
I feel a hot flush at the word babe, even though I know he doesn’t mean it like that.
“Yeah, yeah, I guess so.” I laugh.
“So, Rose.” He glances over. “Am I forgiven? Or do I need to beg?” Something about the way he drops his voice at the word beg sends a rush of heat down my neck. I swallow hard.
“I forgive you,” I say, a little breathless. Julian leans closer.
“Brilliant.” He reaches for me, and for one dizzying second, I have the craziest thought that he’s going to kiss me.
But then he pulls back, holding the clean rag he grabbed from the pile behind me.
I grab a clean rag, too, and busy myself with drying the paintbrushes so he won’t see the flame in my cheeks.
Did I really think that Julian would try and kiss me?
“You’ve got quite an eye for color, by the way. Especially for one so inexperienced.” He frowns a little. “Why didn’t you tell me you’d never painted before?” How does he know that? Off my look, he chuckles. “Your friend Delia might have let it slip last week. So why didn’t you?”
“Because I was embarrassed? Awkward?” I give him a tiny smirk. “Total rubbish?” I say, echoing his earlier words.
“Fair point,” he says warmly. Together, we carry the supplies back to the shelves. I suddenly realize something.
“Why were you here before eight a.m. on a Saturday?”
Julian shelves the last bit of paint and dusts his hands on his jeans.
“That’s another reason I was hoping we could be friends.” He raises a brow at me. “It’s nice to finally meet someone else who sleeps as poorly as I do.” Julian motions for me to follow him as he makes his way over to the desk. “Do you like tea? I’ve got a thermos of Earl Grey.”
“Sure,” I say, watching Julian with this new bit of information in mind. I can see it now, the shadows beneath his bright eyes, the slight drag in his steps. He unscrews the thermos, fills the cap, and hands it to me. Fragrant and steaming, it feels like holding a pocket of heat in my palms.
Or maybe it’s this new warmth blossoming in my chest from Julian’s apology, the camaraderie of a fellow insomniac, the crooked lift of his smile.
“So what’s your reason for shit sleep? Can I guess?” Julian leans back against his desk, crossing one leg over the other. “Let’s see…you can’t stop scrolling through Facebook Marketplace.”
“No.” I laugh. “Although Facebook Marketplace is ridiculously addictive.” I drop my eyes to my tea. “The truth is I don’t think I’ve ever had a single peaceful night of sleep in my entire life. I get nightmares. Bad ones.”
Julian’s looking at me closely. I twist my fingers, feeling vulnerable.
“Darling,” he says, reaching for me. At first, I think he’s asking for his thermos cap back. Instead, Julian steps close and wraps his long fingers around mine, cupping my hands and the cap both. “Have you ever heard of Ambien, for fuck’s sake?”
I laugh so hard, I snort, which only makes me laugh harder. The saving grace is that Julian’s laughing too. When our laughter dies down, I realize Julian’s hands are still cupping mine.
For a moment, we just look at each other.
The bag on Julian’s desk buzzes. He drops my hands immediately and swears.
“Totally forgot,” he grunts, grabbing the bag and digging out his phone. “I’m meeting my advisor for coffee. Her schedule’s completely mad; eight thirty on a Saturday was all she could do.”
“Of course. I should probably be going, anyway.” Delia will be back sometime soon, and I’m sure she’ll want to debrief about her night with Amber. “Thank you for the Earl Grey. And for the nice talk.”
“Anytime, Rose,” he says. “Truly. I’ll chat with you anytime. Not just about nightmares. Whatever you bloody want. Your arse of a TA, for example.”
“That’s…incredibly kind. You definitely don’t have to.”
Julian’s gaze roams my face. “It’s hardly an imposition,” he says.
Oh my god. Is he flirting with me?
Julian’s phone buzzes again and he groans. “Off I go. See you in class!” Julian rushes out but pauses at the door to look back over his shoulder. The smile he gives me has my stomach fluttering for a good five minutes after he’s left.