Chapter 10
“Can we get a refill, please?”
Our waitress gives Delia a tired smile, pouring coffee into our empty mugs.
I lean into the steam, chasing the comfort of that rich, dark smell.
Delia brought me to the Alchemist’s Study because it’s within walking distance of Coupland Hall and they roast their own coffee beans using, if Payen University legends are to be believed, actual alchemy.
After last night, we could both use a dose of caffeinated magic.
“So, are you going to tell me what happened after you left the pub?” she asks.
I toy with a napkin, head still down. “Hayden walked me home. He did his hot-and-cold thing with me again.” I rub my tired, swollen eyes.
“I know I should be mad at him. I am mad at him. But I also can’t stop thinking about him.
When he’s near me, it’s like my whole body just…
wants to be closer to him. And sometimes I swear he feels it too.
And then the next second it’s like he wants nothing to do with me.
” I let out a weak laugh. “Ugh, I sound like every girl who’s ever had a pathetic crush. ”
Delia gives me an exhausted smile. “It’s cuz you are a girl who has a pathetic crush.”
I finally notice how worn-out she looks. The dark circles that rim her eyes, how pale and drawn she is. “Delia.” I sit up and reach across the table. “Are you okay?”
“Oh my god, yes. Totally.” She pats my hand and slumps a little.
“I’m just dog-tired, dude. I’m not used to so little sleep.
Last night was weird.” Delia’s gaze drifts out the café’s large window.
She stares at the tiny rain-slick parking lot carpeted in shiny orange and red maple leaves.
“Things didn’t work out with Dangly Earring from the bar. He was…gross.”
“Gross? What do you mean by that? He didn’t—”
“No.” Delia snorts, shaking her head. “No, no, he didn’t do anything to me. He sort of turned out to be a loser. And like…” She shudders. “He tasted…bad. Like cigarettes and bong water.”
“That sounds very…not pleasant,” I say weakly, frowning into my coffee mug.
Delia barks a laugh.
We settle the check, coins and bills shuffled across the table. Outside, the crisp air hits us as we thread through campus, talking and laughing until the arts building comes into view.
“Hey, you two.” Bianca sidles up to us after we enter the studio and put on our aprons. “Last night was fun! We should do it again. Although…damn, Rose, are you still hungover?”
“Most likely.” I poke at my blank canvas. “Remind me to stay away from mojitos. And Long Island iced teas. I am so tired.”
I perk up when Julian waltzes in, flashing his handsome smile at the class.
I do my best to focus and don’t take my eyes off him as he lectures about color theory.
I pinch myself so much to stay awake that when it’s time for us to gather our materials, my arm is covered in small red welts.
I lurch, zombie-like, toward the equipment shelves, and by the time I get there, only the crappy palettes are left.
My best option is covered in dry paint. I grab a palette knife and take it to the sink, beginning the drudgery of scraping the slab clean.
My phone buzzes. In jerky, clumsy movements, I rearrange the knife and palette to dig the phone from my pocket. It’s a text from my dad. He’s sent me an article on the benefits of joining an intramural sports team. Could be interesting! is his caption.
My hand slips, and before I realize it, the knife I’m holding has cut a small wound in my palm.
“Oh my god, Rose, your hand.” Bianca’s pointing into the sink, horrified.
“Huh?” I look down. Blood is pooling in my palm. The palette and knife are a slick and sticky red. I try not to panic, but I’m not really sure what to do.
“Thanks, Bianca, you can return to your seat.” Julian appears at the sink and reaches around me to switch on the water.
His eyes flick down at the blood, and for just a fraction of a second, his lips twist in a subtle grimace.
Then it’s gone, replaced by his usual calm.
“Let’s just pop this on. And I’ll have those, yup.
Thanks.” He gently eases the palette and knife from my grip and sets them aside.
“Now, if you could just put your hand right…” He takes my wrist and pulls it under the warm rush of water. “There. Perfect.”
“My phone.” I frown at the counter, where water is spraying slightly on my cracked screen. Julian grabs it, dries it with a paper towel, and sets it down on the counter, out of splash range.
“Make sure to scrub it with soap.” Julian nods at my wounded palm. “I’m sure it will come as a terrible surprise to hear that our instruments are not kept in pristine condition.”
Despite my anxiety, I snort and fill my hands with soap, scrubbing dutifully.
“Let me see.” Julian takes my hand when I’m done rinsing, turning it this way and that. “Good.”
“I’m really tired,” I admit in a low voice.
“No. You don’t say.” His lips twitch. “Come on, then.” He guides me by the elbow to a roll of paper towels. “Take loads of these and press them on the cut.” His eyes are like clovers today. “Stay here.”
I watch Julian scrub a hand through his hair as he makes his way back to the circle of easels and the gawking students pretending to paint at them. Their attention snaps back to their canvases when they see him coming. All of them except Delia’s, of course. Her eyes are huge.
Are you kidding me? she mouths, fanning herself. I give her my biggest eye roll and drop my gaze to my hand. I flex and relax my palm, watching the long, slim cut open and close over and over. At least it’s stopped bleeding.
Before long, the bell tower at the center of campus chimes.
Class is over. Chairs scrape and conversation erupts among the other students as they pack up their stuff and put away their paints and brushes.
I catch a few of them glancing over at me, but for once, I don’t care.
I amble over to my seat and start to pack my bag with one hand and Delia’s help.
“Miss Shields,” Julian calls out as he roots around his desk drawers, looking frustrated. “You’re not getting an infection on my watch. Stay a moment, please.”
Delia’s eyes get so wide, I swear they take up half her face. “We’ll talk later,” she whispers before scurrying out.
“Yes, found it!” Julian holds up a small red first aid bag.
“Over here, Rose.” He pats a chair beside his desk as the last student files out, looking back curiously at us.
Julian doesn’t notice. He’s in his desk chair, drumming fingers on his smooth jaw as he plucks items from the open kit.
I fall into the wooden chair beside his desk.
“Thank you,” I say.
Julian glances up and smiles. “It’s nothing.” He takes my hand, and when he’s satisfied the bleeding has stopped, he digs out some Neosporin. “Is this how you are after a beer or two?”
I blush, a little embarrassed. “Apparently. All I want to do is put my head down.”
Julian’s expression softens. “You can, by the way.”
“What?”
“Put your head down.” He unzips his charcoal knit cardigan. When he pulls it off, a delicious cloud of leather and bergamot puffs in my face. He balls the soft wool and sets it on the desk in front of me.
I don’t think twice. I rest my head on his cardigan. It’s still warm from his body. “Wow, this smells good. Like, really good.”
Julian bursts into laughter. “I should hope so. It’s over one hundred and fifty quid for three ounces of the stuff.” He looks down at me and raises a brow. “What do you think? Worth it? Or do you think I’m a bloody idiot?”
“Totally worth it.” When I peek up at Julian, color is high on his cheeks as he gathers the trash from the gauze and bandages.
“Glad I’m not wasting my money,” he murmurs, shooting a quick glance at me.
“You were asking if this is what I’m like after a couple beers. It’s not, because it turns out I don’t like beer,” I say.
“No?” he says.
“Nope. Also, did you know a Long Island iced tea has zero tea in it and tastes like something from over there?”
Julian swivels his head to see I’m pointing at the shelf laden with metal cans of turpentine, mineral spirits, and acetone. He bursts into laughter.
“I’m learning so much today,” he says, his eyes dancing with amusement.
“No, you’re not. I’m sure you knew all about Long Island iced teas. And actual Long Island. And Staten Island. I bet you know all the islands.”
Julian gives me a small, warm smile. “As far as islands go, I really only know the British Isles, and, according to my friend who’s from Brooklyn, it is quite alright to know nothing about Staten Island.
” Julian tosses the wrappers into the trash can beneath his desk.
“So…” he begins. “What is your drink of choice?”
I think of what Delia said the other night.
“I’ve never had it,” I muse, “but I think I’d like to try red wine sometime.”
“That can be arranged,” he says casually.
He zips up the first aid kit, puts it away.
“One of my friends has an art show at a gallery in downtown Fairford coming up. They’ll have red wine there.
” Julian’s on his feet now, gathering his things.
He peers into his messenger bag, tucking notebooks and pens into the multiple pockets. “Would you like to come with me?”
What?
Surely I misheard him. I sit up slowly.
“You want me to come with you as your…student?” I eventually say.
Julian leans a hip against his desk and rolls his eyes. “You really do need sleep. As my date. Do you want to come with me as my date?”
“Your…date?” I chew my lip as I carefully fold his cardigan and hand it back to him. I meet his eyes. “Why?”
“Because I like you?” he says as he puts his cardigan back on.
“Why?” I say again. Julian shakes his head, huffing a laugh and shrugging on a coat.
“Um, because you’re easy to talk to. I don’t ever feel like you’re putting on a front. You’re one of the only ones who actually pay attention to me in class. And now every time I see a pigeon, all I can do is think about how bloody misunderstood they are.”
“That’s a reason to like me?” I scrunch up my nose.
Julian’s eyes rove my face. “Absolutely,” he murmurs. “Come on. I’ll walk you out.”
I’m trying to take this all in as we head out the classroom. It doesn’t hit me until we step into the crisp, cold fog: Julian likes me. He could totally have asked anyone to go with him to the art show. But he asked…me.
“You don’t have to answer now.” Julian lifts his face to a sweet autumn wind. “You can sleep on it.” He frowns. “You definitely should sleep on it, actually. I forgot you’re terribly sleep deprived. Wouldn’t want you to make any poor decisions in this state.”
“Course not.” I tuck my smile into my scarf. “So, how do I let you know my answer? Should I just raise my hand in class?”
“God, no. Unless the answer’s a definite yes?” Julian teases. I give him a look I hope is coy. “Until then…” He pulls out his phone. “The poor man’s messenger pigeon.”
I chew my lip as we swap numbers. How is this happening? It’s so…easy.
Why do some people have to make it so difficult?
Julian hands me back my phone, and I beam up at him. “Thank you,” I say fervently. “For everything today. You, um. Really made my week.”
His smile softens into something more subtle, something for just us two.
“That’s another reason I like you,” he says in a low voice.
“This right here.” He flicks a finger at both my eyes.
“I use this brand of oil paint that gives their colors these fun names. And on days like today, when the sky is just a single sheet of clouds, I can’t decide if your eyes are more Meteor Shower or Stargazer. ”
“That, Julian, is what I believe they call a line.” I tilt my head up at him. “Has that ever worked for you?”
“You tell me.”
“I dunno,” I say. “I’ll have to sleep on it. Then I’ll let you know.”
“Please do.” The husk of his voice makes my stomach swoop. He starts walking away backward so he doesn’t take his eyes off me. “Until then.” He stops walking, makes a show of staring at my face. “Stargazer today, I think,” he says, then turns around and walks away.
I watch him, clutching my phone to my chest, overwhelmed. So this is what it feels like: Flirting with a cute boy. Being wanted. Being chosen. No confusion. No games.
A breeze threads through my hair, sending a shiver down my spine. Handfuls of leaves dance on the wind, brush by my ear.
Rose, I swear it whispers as it goes by.
Rose.