“Shh. You’ll wake up my landlord,” I say as they slip inside. I have the top two floors of a town house, but the building is old, and the walls are thin. “What took you so long?” Dorian passes a look to Atticus. I get a strange feeling; something’s changed between them. “I was starting to worry.”
Then Dorian grins at me. “You weren’t kidding, the tunnels under campus are massive. It’s basically an underground city.” He sounds a little breathless, like the adrenaline is still pumping through his system. His cheeks are rosy, his hair windswept, eyes bright and clear. Next to him, Atticus looks similar, although in his eyes the look of triumph is laced with something else I can’t quite identify. Is it disappointment?
“You have to come next time,” says Atticus.
“Next time,” I say, trying to smile but failing. The invitation somehow doesn’t feel so special now that it’s over. “So, what did you get?”
Atticus hands me the book before throwing himself down on the couch. “We grabbed whatever we could.”
“It’s in Latin; you’ll know what it says.” When Dorian plants himself next to Atticus, he gives him a lingering look that he hides with a sweep of his glove through his hair. Atticus returns the glance, a kind of half-lidded wink. Something passes between them, and I’m not quite sure what. Suddenly, I’m feeling left out all over again, and the loneliness is like an ice pick to the heart.
“Did something else happen?” I ask, probing, though hopefully not pressing.
“No, nothing,” says Dorian, shifting in his seat.
I know a lie when I hear one.
Sweat blooms across my palms. Jealousy takes hold. Do I even want to know? I try not to look at Atticus. I know. I know. It’s so silly to love a man who can’t love me back, but as they say, the heart wants what it wants, and I’ve always wanted Atticus.
Atticus explains, “Warden Stone was in the archive when we arrived, so we had to hide until he left.”
“Warden Stone.” Hearing the name, I feel foolish. After dealing with the protesters, he probably went to check on the archive,making sure the books were secure. I should have warned them after I saw him. “I wish you’d told me you’d be late,” I say stupidly and regret it immediately.
“How?” Atticus asks, confused. “It’s not like I could have called or texted.”
“No, I know, but…”
Dorian’s gaze slides to Atticus. “It won’t happen again,” he says. “Right, Finch?”
Atticus straightens up a little, shoulders back, and tilts his head as if listening to a distant sound. “Yeah,” he says. “We’ll have to find some other way to talk to each other across distances.”
It feels as though I’m not privy to something. Like I haven’t seen them in years instead of hours. I want to ask about it, but it’s probably nothing and Atticus is already opening the book and paging through it. The writing is faded, the paper thin and fragile, yellowed and frail with age. It cracks when he runs his finger across the surface.
“I vote we see what’s inside,” he says.
“I’m too awake to go to bed anyway,” I agree, taking a seat.
We gather around the ancient book as Dorian offers to make tea. While he fills the kettle, we prepare ourselves, making room to work. The coffee table is actually just the old trunk that I packed my belongings into, and he clears it of everything but the book, brushing away dirt and a few odds and ends.
“How did it go with Aspen, anyway?” Atticus asks.
“Fine.”
“Just fine?” he teases.
“What are you getting at?”
He glances in Dorian’s direction before replying. “Your energy is…off.”
I bat my hand through the air. “It’s nothing.”
Atticus presses his mouth into a line. “Still. You can tell us anything, you know that.”
I can’t. I really can’t. I like Atticus too much. And I know he won’t ever like me in the same way. I can’t help wanting him, wanting him the way he wants Dorian. I’ve always wanted things I can’t have. It’s like I torture myself on purpose, even when I know it makes me miserable.
Atticus watches me, and for an instant, it feels like he can see right through me. I almost want to hide, but Dorian returns with the teapot, steeping with bags of black tea, a trio of mugs balanced in the other hand. We arrange ourselves on the floor around the trunk. Dorian sits opposite me, Atticus at my side. I welcome the warmth of his body next to mine.
I close the book and study it. The cover is made from blue leather, the texture soft beneath my fingers. A cross flecked with gold decorates it. I trace my fingers over the leather, feeling the grooves and indents made by the script, letting my eyes unfocus and my mind relax. Something shifts, and the words make sense. Nothing about them changes, but I do. I morph myself around the language, taking its shape, embracing it.
