Standing in the shadow of that statue now, though, the frustration feels pointed, specific—a bronzed reflection of my own mood at being in this mess. So close to the finish here, so close to my freedom, and once again I haven’t been able to see something through, to cross that threshold that gives me my independence. I close my eyes and hear familiar words, words that live in my head like stitching on clothes—unremarkable, almost invisible—until something tears and you realize just how important they are.
Greer, you’re not cut out for this kind of thing
Greer, you know your body can’thandle so much
Greer, you always take on more than you’re capable of
“Hi.”
So that is…probably not Socratestalking to me.
I open my eyes, find Alex standing a few feet away, wearing a version of what he’d been wearing when he showed up on Friday—black T-shirt, this one less faded, a pair of army-green utility pants, boots. His beard is back, two days since he’d been clean shaven at the ceremony, already shadowed when I’d met him outside of the tent. Over his eyes, he wears a pair of dark sunglasses, and sure, they look movie star cool and all, but I absolutely hate what they hide from me.
“I was—uh, you know. Resting my eyes,” I say, straightening and adjusting the strap of my bag. “How’ve you been?”
“Restless.” His voice is a little dull, closed off, though as soon as he’s said it something in his face softens. He takes off his sunglasses and tucks them in the collar of his shirt, fixing me with the full force of that sea-glass stare. “Glad to be outof the house.”
Even though I first met Alex in Kit’s house, it’s not easy for me to picture him there now, not easy for me to imagine him doing simple, domestic things like wiping down counters or flipping through television channels or—cartoonish gulp—sleeping in a bed.
“Me too. I mean, I was not in my house. I was at work. Which is at the hospital. My house is somewhere else.” Socrates is judging me,I can feel it.
Alex quirks an eyebrow and entirely ignores 75 percent of the nonsense I have just released into the air. “You workat a hospital?”
“Yes, I’m a—I’m in training to be a social worker there. Helping people find care placements for when they leavethe hospital.”
“That must be difficult. Hospitals are hard.”
I blink across the sidewalk at him. “You photograph war zones.”
“That is—” He breaks off, an oddly thoughtful expression on his face, as though he had to be reminded. “True,” he finishes. After a beat, he takes a deep breath, clasps his hands together at his waistline and wrings them together once before tucking them back into his pockets. “So. You figureout your plan?”
“Right, the plan.” I don’t want to say this in front of Socrates, so I gesture toward the sidewalk, start heading toward north campus, where all the fine arts buildings are clustered. On Saturday, all I’d really known—after some frantic, secretive googling during my Friday pedicure—was that the professor I need to appeal to is a photographer whose particular area of specialty means that he’s almost certainly heard of Alex. But since I spent most of Sunday afternoon doing more research, I also know that this professor is soliciting submissions from photographers who are willing to have a print in the charity auction he’s running to raise money for his department’s scholarship fund. Given that the appeals on his social media have grown increasingly desperate, I’m guessing he doesn’t have a lot in the kitty yet. I tell Alex that as we walk, and he keeps his eyes ahead, his hands still tucked looselyin his pockets.
“So I offer to donate a photograph, and—?”
“You might not have to,” I say quickly, hopefully. As desperate as I am, I’d still like to go it alone; I’d still like to walk into Peter Hiltunen’s office and handle this myself. I’d still like to avoid being an obligation for Alex, no matter that he’d like to have something to do for howeverlong he’s here.
I feel him look over at me, but I only grip my bag more tightly. Walking toward us on the quad’s pathway is a young woman I did a group project with in a Sociology of the Family course last semester. She’s got her phone pressed to her ear, and she’s talking loudly about being “literallydead of embarrassment.” When she raises her eyes I lift a hand to give her a small wave, but she doesn’t notice. Instead she stumbles over her words and her eyes go wide as shelooks at Alex.
Typical.
When she passes us—I’d have had to slap herliteralface to have gotten her to return my wave, I guess—I finally work up the courage to look his way. As usual, he doesn’t seem to notice the effect he’s had on passing strangers. “It may be that you only have to show your face,” I tell him.
“Show my face? What good is that going to do?”
I suppress a smile. “Your face is pretty effective.”
He stops on the path, and I’m a couple of steps ahead before I do too, turning backto look at him.
“So’s yours,” he says. Simply. As though it’s the most obvious thing in the world to him.
I think my mouth does that open-close thing a few times, or maybe it’s mostly open before I finally compose myself enough to get words out again. When I do, it is clear I have handled the compliment by replacing my personality withsomeone else’s.
“There’s a coffee cart in that building, to the left of the one where I’m headed,” I say, pointing to the sign that stands outside the squat, concrete box that houses the Department of Photography and Film. No wonder there’s a fund-raising effort under way. “Go there, order two cups, to go. Wait five minutes and then come find me, office number seventeen. Just stand outside the door and wait. If you hear me cough”—I break off, do the littleuch uchsound that’s going to be our signal—“find a reason to knock on the door. Maybe you say we’re running late, or that you need to borrow my wallet. The point is, we know eachother, right?”
“We do know each other.” His eyes are bright, interested.
“If I don’t cough, then just keep waiting. That means I’m handling it myself. Which iswhat I prefer.”
