Soon, the whiteboard is full of scribbled ideas, none of thempromising. We use some of our grant money to ship in research on a few ancient conjuration wizards Elethior comes up with. I pour myself into books I haul over after stints at my library job, pushing the limits of caffeine with how late I stay every night. Elethior mimics me again, but not like he’s trying to one-up me; this is like he’s gauging my reaction for something.
Which pisses me off.
He’s not evenfightingme on our sickening civility. Is this what he’s wanted the whole time? For us to blandly shuffle around each other, working in anemic silence? Fuck him. Fuck him for being okay with this boring-ass dynamic.
And fuck me for being the one to implement it and stick to it.
Can’t be friendly with him. Can’t hold him at a distance. Can’t drop the grant. Can’tescape.
My mom texts for updates aboutyour project with that Tourael. Your father and I are so proud.
And dad keeps calling. He doesn’t leave more voicemails. Just lets the missed calls every few days be enough of a disturbance.
Clawstar checks in. Nothing threatening or passive aggressive, a simpleHow is your project going, Mr. Walsh? We’re looking forward to working with you!But I still send back what is probably a too-thorough email explaining how I’ve been advancing my project and that I’m making the most of this grant and see, you haven’t made a bad choice in giving me the job.
I’m pretty sure my blood content is 85 percent caffeinated beverages by the end of the week.
This semester is going to kill me.
I trudge into the lab Friday morning, bleary-eyed, clutching an extra-large drip coffee with a quad shot of espresso, which is apparently my regular order now.
Elethior’s already here, dressed in his usual tight T-shirt and fitted dark jeans, his hair swept into a messy knot at the back of his head. He doesn’t look ragged or like he hasn’t been sleeping, which is good; it means his mom is okay, if he’s here and not frazzled.
He’s also standing in front of my whiteboard.
Writingon my whiteboard.
It’sourproject now, but that’s still beenmywhiteboard, and onlyI’vebeen writing on it. OnlyI’vebeen touching it.
He hasn’t noticed me, his cell phone pinched between his ear and shoulder as he writes, tracing the same rune over and over with progressive intensity.
“Yes,” he says sharply. “I told you—”
His eyes connect with mine and he stiffens.
“I have to go,” he says into the phone, and whatever’s said in farewell makes his eyes roll in a grimace. But he clicks off and stuffs his phone into his pocket.
My gaze flicks to that pocket in question.
His cheeks pinken. “Arasne,” he grumbles.
“Anything concerning?”
Elethior shakes his head, tongue pushing against his teeth in exasperation. “No. Her usual invasive pressure. Irritating, but—”
“Okay. Good.” I shove my bag and coffee onto my desk, stomp over to him, rip the marker out of his hand, and give him my best sleep-deprived, at-the-end-of-my-very-last-wit glare. “Don’t touch my stuff.”
Elethior blinks in surprise. I’m making eye contact and that wasalmostbanter, if not for the way I’m holding strong in my offense. This is more direct interaction than we’ve had all week.
He snatches the marker back. “Before she interrupted me, I was putting down an idea I got when I was cooking dinner last night.”
I grab the marker again. “Then tell me, andI’llwrite it down.” Boundaries. I have strapped myself to boundaries, and by gods, I’ll let the bulldozer of stubbornness squash me flat before I give up this very, very flimsy grasp on the last vestiges of my sanity.
Elethior tosses his hands up. “You know what? Fine. You write it down. Write:measuring cup.”
I lean in to the board.
Then stop. “What?”
