Tossing my phone down, I rip the headphones out of my ears like they’ve burned me. The room is silent except for my own ragged breathing, my chest aching as if it’s been caved in. Oh god, what did I do? What have I confessed to the man I’ve effectively friend-zoned a few hours prior?
With trembling thumbs, I try to write out a reply, an apology, anything, but it’s not like Thiago has responded to anything else. He’s not likely to answer me now, or ever again. Selfishly, I want to call him, to cry down the phone that I’m scared, I’m confused and I’m sorry. Instead, I cry silently to myself, adopting the fetal position amongst my covers. Why am I even like this? I keep chasing people who might hurt me and pushing away the one person who never would.
A fresh wave of guilt crashes over me, thick and suffocating. Laura is missing. Harrison might be back. And somehow, in the middle of all of that, I’ve managed to fracture the one relationship in my life that has never been conditional. Thiagomeans more to me than I can explain, far more than those voice notes describe. Why couldn’t I have told him that instead?
I press my palms into my eyes until stars burst behind them. I was desperate to go out last night to prove something, to feel something. Well, now I feel everything.
Chapter Twenty Four
Monday morning arrives whether I’m ready for it or not. I spent all of yesterday in my room with the curtains half-drawn, letting the light move across the walls without ever fully touching me. I survived on a protein bar and energy drink I found in my gym bag, my pee signaling that I’m painfully dehydrated. Not even that was sign enough to actually take care of myself. When Laura is found, when I know what’s happened to her, when she’s safe, I might be able to start forgiving myself. But not yet.
At some point mid-afternoon, I gave into my loneliness, powered on my computer and loaded up Runeborn. The familiar loading screen glowed against the dimness of my room, the soundtrack filling the silence while I sat there with my hoodiepulled over my knees. I thought I could trigger Thiago into speaking to me under the guise of playing, but his username did not blink green. At no point did I decide to actually text him. I wouldn’t know what to say, and if he wants to respond to any of my humiliating voice notes, he knows where to find me.
By evening, I just lay there, staring at the ceiling and replaying everything on a loop. Laura’s laugh. Everest’s look of relief at my door. The string of voice notes I sent Thiago. The strange absence of music from the next room along. Morning came without giving me the reprieve of sleep, and I can’t afford to spend another day like that.
So I drag myself out of bed before the excuses start streaming in. My limbs feel heavy as I move through the motions of showering, brushing my hair and sorting out my face with some light make-up to cover up the dark circles. I pull on black leggings and an oversized Hollowbrook lacrosse hoodie, swamping myself in team spirit that is completely one sided. No one on my so-called team even wants me here.
The air outside carries an early autumn breeze towards the courtyard. Students dot the pathways in clusters, their voices lower than usual and conversations clipped. I try to keep my head ducked to make it to the art block unscathed, but as usual, luck isn’t on my side. A pair of studded platform boots step into my way, a wall of tattoos and loudly chewed gum blocking my path. At her back, a gang of women dressed in black sneer at me.
“Why don’t you just tell them where Laura is?”
I reel back as if I’ve been slapped. “I don’t know where she is,” I narrow my eyes. Is that what people think? I’m just sitting on this knowledge out of what, spite?
“You know where he would have taken her,” another pipes up. “She’s suffering. Just tell the police already.”
“It should have been you,” the original girl scorns, striding into me shoulder-first. I stagger aside, rubbing my chest andexhaling a shuddery breath. I will not cry in public, nor will I run back to my room. There’s nothing there for me but isolated misery.
My spine straightens automatically, and as I enter the art block, I don’t bother looking around. If I make eye contact with one more curled lip, I might just shatter. Pushing through the heavy studio door, I make my way to the back, claiming my stool out of sight and mind. The chemical smell of paint seeps into me, tickling my nose. Another reminder that I’m not where I belong.
Around the studio, half-started canvases rest on easels. That is, until I glance at mine. The rectangle of white stares back at me, wondering if we’re going to actually make some sort of progress today. I doubt it, knowing my focus will be shot but perhaps the distraction is so sorely needed, I’ll give it a go.
Before me, the studio slowly fills, voices layering over one another in guarded murmurs. If anyone shares the opinion of Goth Girl, they don’t openly share it. Backpacks drop to the floor, stools scrape. Liz allows an extra five minutes for the stragglers to drag their feet through the door, one of them being Reid. And I thought I looked like shit.
His carefully curated image of ink-stained fingers, artfully messy hair and a gloomy edge is riper than usual. There are dark smudges beneath his gray eyes, his jaw shadowed with stubble like he couldn’t be bothered to pick up a razor this morning. Even his clothes seem off, a black tee creased and thrown on without thought, stains clinging to the fabric as if he slept in a paint palette.
He doesn’t scan the room with his usual lazy arrogance either, simply taking his seat and slumping over his bag. I watch the muscles in his back flex as he breathes, far too labored to have only come from our apartment block.
Clasping her hands together with a jingle of silver bangles, Liz commands our attention. Her graying curls are piled hightoday, a pencil skewered through the bun. She scans the room with bright, perceptive eyes that miss absolutely nothing.
“Good morning, creatives. I hope you all managed to get some rest yesterday. Today we’re doing something mildly terrifying,” she announces, perching on the edge of her desk. A ripple of uneasy laughter moves through the class. It occurs to me then that there’s a reason I didn’t feel the same distaste rippling through the students in this room. Except for Reid and I, none of them attended Everest’s party. They’re art freaks, not bull-headed jocks. They either don’t know of my connection to Laura, or simply don’t care for the drama. I relax just a fraction, until Liz continues talking.
“Given that we’re focusing on self-expression this semester, and we’re our own worst critics at the best of times, I’ve decided you’re going to come to the front one by one and explain the concept behind your current piece. Not the technique. Not the aesthetic. The why.” She taps her chest lightly. “Art without intention is decoration. I want intention, and as artists, you need to learn to take feedback and implement it into your work.”
My stomach drops to my feet. Today we’re baring our souls in front of an audience. Today of all days?! I can barely hold myself together long enough to sit upright, and now I’m supposed to articulate some profound inner truth? The universe has a dark sense of humor, and I’m not here for it.
Without putting up the fight that I plan on giving, students shuffle to the front one by one. A girl with pastel pink hair goes first, her hands trembling as she gestures toward a canvas splashed in frenzied neon strokes. “My piece is supposed to represent anxiety,” she says quietly. “Basically, whenever I feel nervous, I come and throw bright colors at it until I feel better.” I look over the painting again, the explosion of color that hurts to look at for too long. It’s bold and impossible to ignore. I’m not much of an art snob, but yeah, I get it.
Next is a guy who I recognize as a big chess prodigy that created some excitement last year when he made it to the finals. His piece is delicate, charcoal sketches of hands overlapping, some reaching, some pulling away.
“Mine is about expectations,” he mutters, eyes fixed on the floor. “How everyone’s always grabbing at you. Coaches. Parents. Friends. I guess it’s about trying to figure out which hands are yours.” There’s an awkward silence when he finishes, but it isn’t mocking. It’s contemplative. It’s the silence of fifteen pairs of eyes looking at his canvas and empathizing with it.
A petite brunette presents a self-portrait split down the middle, one side hyper-detailed and polished, the other blurred and faceless. I get the concept before she even speaks, also being split between two versions of myself. I could have done something similar, but I’m coming to doubt if I have the creative flair I thought I did. A few drawing classes in the rehab facility and I thought I had some natural, untapped talent. Now, I’m a fraud amongst the experts, and Liz has just called my name. Everyone in the room turns to face me, except Reid. His body is locked in place.
My legs are steadier than I expect as I move toward the front, but that doesn’t mean I’m not unraveling inside. I don’t bother to take my blank canvas with me. Liz smiles warmly, which is probably the reason I make it past the door without bolting.
Setting myself beside her desk, I blink up to be trapped in a sea of gray. Now he looks at me. Or rather, he tracks every micro-expression that crosses my face, cataloguing them for later use. It’s the first time our eyes have met since the party. The memory of his hands on my hips in the kitchen flashes through me, followed by the way he nodded when I told him to meet me upstairs. Heat creeps up my neck, my pulse spiking but I have to ignore him. Ignore everything I've come to associate with him.
“Meg, I see you haven’t made a start on your first piece yet,” Liz states cautiously. “Tell us what you’re thinking.” Now there’s a dangerous question. Clearing my throat, I keep my focus on the floor.
