I laughed, short and sharp. “You don’t get to decide that either. Maybe I enjoyed his company last spring.”
His frown deepened, a muscle in his jaw tightening. “Okay.”
“Okay.” I crossed my arms. “I specifically told you I didn’t want people at Douglas to know.”
His eyes narrowed. “No you didn’t.”
“I—yes I did! I said I didn’t want photos?—”
“No photos doesn’t mean you don’t want people to know. Maybe?—”
“You knew what I meant. And there was already a picture of us in the Herald?—”
“Yeah. I saw it.” He scrubbed a hand over his jaw.
I drew a breath and released it. “I need to go home. I have a project to finish.”
He nodded.
“Talk to you later.” I turned and walked away before he could say something to make me feel like forgiving him. It seemed likehe was close, and I didn’t want to hear it because now I had a decision to make. Was I going to let the entire Outlaws team think this was real? That I’d gone behind Shar’s back to date her ex? Or was I going to tell them the truth?
There were already too many people who knew what Logan and I were doing, and we weren’t even close to the press walk through at the gallery. Would Norman start to hear the rumors? Especially if he was working with other students at Douglas? Would he care?
Variables swam in my subconscious as I trudged toward home. Logan Kemp had simultaneously improved my life and complicated it. I didn’t have enough information yet to decide if any of it was worth it.
_____
The next morning, campus felt different. Eyes lingered a second too long. Two girls in the art building whispered something about Norman Marcus when I walked by. So. Word had gotten out. I doubted the Outlaws said anything, but Logan wasn’t exactly quiet, and it wasn’t like I was difficult to identify. The whole student body was buzzing about Logan and his teammates showing up at the breakfast, and the artists were just as star struck as I had been by Norman. Unlike Logan Kemp, I didn’t enjoy the extra attention.
After my first class, I went to the Remembrance Day ceremony on the main quad. Students and faculty stood in a loose semi-circle around the cenotaph. Someone from Political Science readIn Flanders Fields.A trumpet played the Last Post,thin and slightly sharp in the wind. Students from ROTC laid wreaths and we shared our two minutes of silence.
I stared at the stone, at the dates carved into it, at the tiny poppies pinned to all our coats. Men my age, younger. Boys who’d left school and never come back. My anxieties about school and jobs and even Logan shrank under the weight of it.
When I got home, the answering machine’s little red light was blinking like a distress beacon. I hit Play.
“Hi, sweetheart,” my mom’s voice chirped. “We saw the paper. Your father nearly choked on his toast. Are you really dating someone on the Blizzard? Call me. Love you.”
I thunked my forehead against the wall.
_____
My drive to the warehouse on Wednesday was uneventful, but my arrival was cause for celebration because the only vehicles in the lot were Norman’s Volvo and a delivery van.
For the first hour, I worked in blessed silence. Inventorying hardware. Sorting artist submissions into stacks. Drafting a preliminary student outreach sheet Norman had asked for.
No Logan.
By lunchtime, the knot in my chest had loosened a fraction. By three, it had morphed into something new: guilt. Maybe I should’ve called him. I thought back over our conversations and realized he was right. I hadn’t explicitly spelled out my concerns, thinking they were obvious. He’d admitted to missing the team and his friends. It washischoices that led to that gap. It seemed obvious that I wouldn’t want to be seen as accepting his behavior.
But, things had changed a lot since that first night in the grocery store. I should’ve been more open with him.
At five, Norman poked his head into the little office nook where I’d spread out submissions. “Go home, Crystal,” he said. “You’re making the rest of us look bad.”
“I still have to type up the draft for?—”
“Tomorrow.” He tapped his fingers on the now actual door frame for his office.
Though I knew he wasn’t going to take his own advice, I packed my bag, shrugged into my coat, and headed out. The lot had emptied down to Jenna’s little car and Norman’s Volvo.
