Chapter 13
Tears splash on my sketchbook as I scrub the charcoal stick against the thick paper. I glance up out the giant round window, catch a glimpse of the benevolent stretch of the angel’s wings in Holyfield Cemetery.
I cry harder, wiping my running nose on my sleeve, and drag the charcoal wildly across the pages.
This is why people die alone. Because, my god, if this is what it feels like to get your heart broken after a few stupid moments in a courtyard, in a library, in a church, what must it feel like after one month? One year? One decade?
How do people survive heartbreak?
I hear Delia’s keys in the lock, and my heart warms. It’s nice that this is now one of my favorite sounds in the world.
I keep sketching, my feet propped on the radiator as I sit on the sofa, which we’ve turned to face the window.
The door clicks gently shut and I hear Delia drop her keys on her desk.
“I got your texts,” she says softly. Her arms go around my neck as she hooks her chin over my shoulder.
I press my temple against hers, soothed by her perfume of jasmine and soft woods.
“I brought you your favorite.” She reaches around me, placing a small Styrofoam container on my sketchbook. I pop it open.
“Banoffee pie,” I gush, throwing my arms up to awkwardly hug her neck. “I love you so much.” With a soft laugh she disentangles herself and rounds the couch, tossing me a plastic spoon. I dig into the gooey whipped cream and caramel, shoving a heaping pile into my mouth.
Delia leans back against the window, arms crossed, eyes soft.
“So, we’re done with Hayden?” she asks gently.
I blink, a few tears falling into my pie. I shut the container and swallow hard.
“Yeah. Yeah.” I scrub at my eyes. “He…I thought it meant something, you know? Taking me to this little church. Asking me about Frankenstein. But I was an idiot.” I frown.
Delia grimaces. “Look, it sounds like Hayden’s got some baggage with a capital B. I know it’s hurtful, how he just leaves you. “But”—Delia fiddles with the hem of her skirt—“it’s possible none of this has anything to do with you at all.”
“What does that mean?” I mumble.
Delia shakes her head. “I mean, he might actually feel something for you, but he’s not sure what to do with it. Like you said, why would he keep making these little reach-out moments if he didn’t want your company?”
“If he likes me,” I say, “then he’s doing a terrible job showing it.”
Delia has no answer for that one. She sits back against the chesterfield and props her legs on the radiator with a sigh. My phone buzzes. Probably my parents. I reach out, mummy-like, slapping the mattress for my phone. Delia nudges it my way, and I open the text.
The first thing I see is a picture of a one-legged pigeon on the steps of the main campus library.
Julian:
Saw this little guy and thought of you
Also, no biggie, but art show is tomorrow. I’ve confirmed there will be three types of red wine.
I hug the phone to my chest. Delia’s brows pop. “Is that Hayden?”
“He never bothered to get my number. It’s…” I sit up, scrubbing my eyes. With all the Hayden stuff, I’d forgotten to tell Delia. “Julian.”
“What?” Delia sits up, eyes huge. “TA Julian? Was-a-dick-to-you-on-your-first-day Julian?”
“He’s also cleaned-my-cut-palm Julian,” I say, sniffling. I gaze down at the texts. “He invited me to an art show tomorrow night as his date.”
“And? What did you say?” Delia casts a suspicious glance at where I’m rapidly typing on my phone.
“I’m telling him yes.”
“Oh, really?” Delia hops onto the mattress beside me, her eyes wide. “You sure, Ro? I mean, I want you to be happy. But you’re not just doing this because you’re pissed at Hayden?”
I look up at her, pleading with my eyes for her to understand. “I…Whatever Hayden might feel or not feel, Delia, my heart can’t take it anymore, okay? It hurts too much. I don’t want to…” My voice falters.
“Okay.” Delia sighs, wrapping her arms around me. “Okay, Rose. Sure. We gotta get you some thorns, man. If there’s a next time with Hayden, he needs to know what it’s like to be pricked back.”
“Until then,” I say, showing Delia my cracked screen, “at least there’s this.”
Julian:
Amazing!!!! So chuffed that you’re coming!!!!!
Please ignore prior text and pretend I sent something cool and dashing.
Delia smiles. “He’s a dork. Cute, but a dork. Now let’s go pick out your outfit.”
—
Julian and I plan to meet in front of MassMo, the art gallery in the heart of downtown Fairford.
I’m nervous the entire bus ride, smoothing the floor-length silk dress that clings to my body like a river of black water.
The halter neckline is secured in a pretty bow at the nape of my neck, and two long, sumptuous ribbons flow all the way down my back to my calves.
Delia’s wrangled my hair into a glossy French twist, teasing out little pieces of curling tendrils to frame my face.
She kept my makeup pretty but subtle, making my heart-shaped face look dewy and eyelids shimmery.
I am going on a date, I think breathlessly. This is my first date.
I do not wonder if Hayden would find my bare back touchable.
My (short, thank god) heels click on the brick sidewalk as I approach MassMo, and there Julian is.
He looks heart-stopping in a dark blue suit, the collar of his white button-up open to show his throat.
The long bangs of his golden hair are tousled beautifully across his brow, highlighting his wide green eyes.
Julian wipes across his jaw, checks his phone, scrubs a hand through his hair, winces when he remembers he’s got product in it.
He looks nervous. Wait. Is he nervous about me?
I can spot the exact moment he sees me. He’s rubbing the back of his neck when he glances my way and does a double take. As I approach him, the only things that move are his eyes, sweeping up and down my body, head to toe.
“Hi—wow. You look so— I mean, just—” I step close, smiling, and reach out to adjust the collar of his shirt, a move from a movie I’d always wanted to do. It doesn’t fail me: When my fingers graze his neck, Julian’s eyes flutter and he lets out a shaky breath.
“Hello,” I say.
“Jesus Christ, Rose,” he sputters. “Have you no mercy?” Julian leans forward, kisses my cheek. “You’re the most gorgeous thing I’ve ever seen.”
“You say that to all the girls,” I say self-consciously, breathing in his warm bergamot scent.
“Only the pigeon-loving ones.” Julian pulls back, eyes dancing. “Thank you for coming.” He offers his elbow, and I take it.
“Don’t thank me just yet. I’m only here for the wine.” I bite back my smile, and Julian walks us to the doors, flashing a pair of tickets to a man in a suit, who unclips a velvet rope for our entry.
“Well then. Best track you down a glass tout de suite, hm?”
I’ve always longed to go to an evening soiree like this.
There’s a live five-piece jazz band in the far corner of the gallery, the saxophone crooning low and smooth, double bass plucking a deep beat.
Beautiful people of all types and ages are crowded around paintings, filling the cavernous space with the crackle of their conversations.
The lights are low and warm, accentuating the spotlights on the stunning paintings hung throughout the gallery.
“Well?” Julian’s watching my face eagerly. “What do you think?”
I’ve got nothing clever to say, so I just tell him the truth. “It’s beautiful,” I sigh.
Julian slips a warm hand around my waist. I lean into him when he pulls me close. I nearly lose my breath when his fingers swipe across the bare skin of my back.
A waiter passes by with a tray of red wine. Julian swipes two from the tray, thanking the guy, and hands me a glass with a hint of ceremony.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he says, “it is time for the moment of truth: Will she or won’t she like it?” Julian watches me with bright green eyes as I take my first sip.
I knew it wouldn’t be sweet from the dark, dry smell. I didn’t expect to like it so much, how the warmth fills my mouth and rushes down my throat. I find the earthy tartness unexpectedly pleasant, hints of smoke in the wake of my swallow.
“Okay,” I say slowly, “I think I’ve found my drink of choice.”
“Brilliant!” Julian beams at me. “Can’t believe I’m so lucky to get to witness such an important first for you.”
“It’s not that big a deal,” I say flatly.
Julian’s eyes twinkle as he presses his lips together. “Oh, I disagree, Miss Rose. You only get one first of anything. Best to enjoy it. First time watching the sun rise. First time feeling buzzed. First kiss…”
“First parking ticket, first time getting pulled over, first heartbreak…” I tap a nail on my wineglass for each item I list.
Julian rolls his eyes. “Come on, let’s go look at art.” He guides us down an aisle of paintings. When he sees my eyes lingering on a geometric painting of a wolf, he stops us in front of it. “Okay, first thoughts?” he says.
I bite my lip, smiling.
“What?” he asks.
“You do this professor voice sometimes,” I say, craning my neck to meet his eyes. “It’s so…stuffy. Bossy.”
“And what’s wrong with bossy, Miss Rose?” he says in a smooth voice. “Don’t like being told what to do?”
I blink, heat rising in my cheeks, then refocus on the painting in front of us. “I like wolves. Especially when there’s only one of them.” I tilt my head, gazing at the black eyes.
Julian steps closer and hums under his breath. When a waiter with another tray of red wine passes, Julian swaps our empty glasses for full ones. He hands me mine.
“Were you a lone wolf your whole life? Or just later?”
“My whole life.” I take a long sip of wine, peering at him over the glass. “I know it’s standard for people to have a lot of firsts in college, but…let’s just say I’ve got a lot of time to make up for.”
Julian cocks his head. “Like…?” I feel the faint heat in my cheeks deepen. Julian gives me an easy smile. “Nothing to be ashamed about. Here, I’ll go first. I didn’t have my first date until I was seventeen, how’s that?”
“I can’t tell you anything now.” I wince.
Julian laughs, shaking his head. “No, no, no, come on, doesn’t matter if this is your first date, just tell me, I won’t—” Julian catches sight of my face and cuts himself off.
I give him a guilty nod. “No,” he says. “No way.” His eyes go huge.
“This is your first date? Christ, Rose, I…” Julian runs a hand through his hair, and god, it looks so good rumpled.
“First of all, how’s that even possible, I mean, look at you.
” He waves a hand up and down at me, sounding pissed.
The buzz from the compliment is even better than the buzz from the wine. “Second of all, talk about pressure.”
Why can’t Hayden be the one to say things like this?
I kick that thought away, hard and fast as I can. Screw Hayden. I’m here with Julian. And he’s being wonderful to me. I flatten my palm against his chest.
“You’re doing beautifully,” I say. “Your grade going into the midterm is an A.”
“A? Not an A-plus?” he murmurs.
My two glasses of wine have me feeling coy. Flirty. “Let’s see how you do on the final.”
“You know,” he says in a low voice, “I’m a very good test taker.”
We drift from piece to piece, shoulders brushing as we stop to look at each one.
More people have filtered in now; there are voices overlapping, laughter rising and falling, the room thick with bodies and heat.
Someone bumps my elbow and apologizes. Julian leans closer so I can hear him, his mouth warm near my ear.
“You know, there’s a little courtyard out back.” Julian notches his brow in curiosity. “If you could use some fresh air?”
“Actually, yeah. I’d love that.”
Julian takes my arm. “Come on, then.”
The first burst of cold air feels incredible. I suck in whole lungfuls of it. Distantly, there’s a little grumble of thunder.
“Uh-oh,” Julian says, eyeing the sky.
“It’s okay,” I say, waving it off. I pace out to the garden, frowning at the ground.
I’m having a really good time. Better than good. Julian is attentive and charming and uncomplicated in all the ways I want him to be. This has been a perfect date. So why does it feel like something in me is holding back, like I’m waiting for a spark that refuses to catch?
A crack of thunder jolts me.
“Rose,” he says, “I’m sorry for not planning this better, but we should probably get inside—” But it’s too late.
The sky opens. It’s one of those sudden storms, the heavy, rolling clouds squeezing out a flood of rain.
Immediately, Julian and I are soaked. I squeal, laughing, and he grabs my hand, pulling me toward the landing.
Just before we duck under the awning, he stops, turns, and faces me. His eyes track hungrily across my face.
“Julian,” I call over the rush of water, “Julian, we’re getting soaked—”
“You ever kissed the rain, Rose?” he says breathlessly, and suddenly I’m breathless too.
Julian takes a step closer, looking gorgeous and soaked, his eyes a green fire.
“Say no. Please say no.” The rain rushes over us, sluicing down our bare necks, down my open back.
Julian’s lids have fallen heavy. I can feel the desire coming off him in waves.
“I want to be the first to do it,” he whispers against my lips. “So say no.”
“No,” I breathe, and he dives into me, his mouth covering mine, one hand cupping my nape, the other very low on my back. I throw my arms around his neck and gasp against his mouth, and with a hungry noise, he angles his head and deepens the kiss.
All of this is hot, my hands slipping beneath his soaked shirt to trace his firm stomach, the little gasp he makes when I do, the tiny jump of his hips.
But then it hits me. I know exactly whose mouth this isn’t. Whose hands these aren’t. The absence roars louder than the storm around us.
I hate myself, because even as Julian is making me moan, truly making me moan, there’s a part of me that’s imagining Hayden. A part of me, buried deep, hot and molten like the earth’s core, that is thinking, over and over:
I wish these were Hayden’s lips. Hayden’s hands. Hayden’s skin.
I want Hayden to ravage me.
I want Hayden.
I want Hayden.