Despite the stupid descriptor, I still felt inferior.
“We’re finishing our theses this weekend,” I said, squeezing Ethan’s arm. “And then we’re going to critique the shit out of each other so we have time to polish.”
“Done,” he replied. “Though I don’t know what sort of brain state I’ll be in after tonight.”
“Tonight?” I asked, glancing at him.
“Tonight,” he said, and wiggled his eyebrows surreptitiously.
“Oh! Sleepover,” I said. “Yes, well, get some sleep, please. I need you at peak brain capacity.”
“No promises.”
He opened the door for me. Outside, the air was static and dry, a cold snap waiting to shatter. The sky was crystal clear, stars shining brighter than I’d ever seen them in the city. It was one of those nights that felt like possibility could sweep down at any moment, everything clear and pristine and on the edge of perfection. Even the nerves of my upcoming thesis got sucked out into the ether.
At least, until a shadow dipped down from one of the streetlamps, flashing obsidian in the pool of light before vanishing into the forest beyond. Too big to be a crow.
“Was that a raven?” Ethan asked.
I just nodded, something from my dreams clawing into consciousness, dragging shards of my past with it. It was just a bird, I tried to convince myself.
It didn’t work.
? ? ?
Ethan and I ate dinner with Jane and Elisa and Jane’s roommate, Cassie. Oliver had already vanished to get ready for the concert and Chris was nowhere to be seen. I tuned out most of the conversation. For the life of me, I couldn’t get the damned raven out of my mind. Just thinking of it made me feel colder than the snow ever could. Black on white, ink on concrete, blood on snow. . . .
I couldn’t shake the mantra. Nor could I forget the images it conjured.
When we finally left the cafeteria and headed to the Writers’ House for hot cocoa and Chris, I felt like my brain was about to melt. Thinking of the boy just made it worse. You aren’t falling for him and he isn’t falling for you, okay? It’s just a little boredom crush. You’re both in your senior year and getting cabin fever. It will all be over soon. The trouble was, I couldn’t tell if I was actually happy about that fact, which didn’t make any sense. Romance wasn’t in my cards—quite literally—and I wasn’t about to entertain the notion otherwise. Brad had pretty much killed any notion of being in love again.
So why did I think of him every time I looked at Chris?
“You okay?” Ethan asked as we trudged up the drive. The Writers’ House was at the far end of campus, peacefully removed from any and all distractions. An oasis of sorts. It also meant getting there in the winter was an ordeal. Well, if you could call walking two blocks an ordeal, which we often did seeing as everything else was in a few-hundred-foot radius.
“Just distracted,” I said. Which was true, for the most part. I just didn’t want to tell him why. And I probably, hopefully, never would.
He grunted, but didn’t press further, which was probably why we got along so well. He knew when to back off and let my mind ruminate. Perk of being around artists: They understood silence.
A few minutes later we approached the wraparound patio of the House. All the buildings on campus looked like lodges, but this one exemplified the architecture. It was two stories tall, overlooking a field that, when not covered in two feet of snow, was used for soccer and Frisbee games. It looked like an alpine ski lodge, with a sharp A-frame roof and raw log walls and picture windows on every side. There was even a small second-story patio overlooking the road, where Ethan and I would perch (no matter the season) to watch the passersby in secrecy.
Even though we weren’t in the creative writing department, the House had become a second home on campus. And since it was fairly removed from the hub, it was usually empty. Judging from the view from out here, we were in luck once more.
The interior was seriously like what I wanted my future house to be, except maybe with less angsty teenage writers hanging about. A huge fireplace crackled on the far side of the open atrium; it was two levels, but the second story balcony encircled the room, all open and airy and allowing writers to look over the wooden banister and throw folded haikus at the kids below. Or whatever writers did here. A few kids were settled on the overstuffed sofas by the fire, deep in their books or journals. Even from here I could feel the literary gears turning. There was a warmth that wasn’t in any other building on campus—this place felt lived-in, infused with words and stories.