I slid out of my coat and wandered to the open-floorplan kitchen to the left of the foyer. The place was stocked with the necessities of literature: a water kettle, a microwave, a coffee maker, and a plethora of teas and coffees and cocoas. I filled the kettle and set it to boil while Ethan rummaged in the cabinet for mugs and chocolate.
A part of me hoped Chris wouldn’t show. Maybe he’d remember a ten-page essay due in the morning. Maybe he’d get eaten up by his own stomach butterflies and bail.
The kettle hadn’t even begun to boil when those vain hopes were dashed at the sound of him opening the front door.
“Damn,” he said the moment he was inside, “it’s freezing out there.”
“Kaira will warm you up,” Ethan said. He caught my glare. “With cocoa. You do like cocoa, right?”
“Obviously,” he replied, and sat down on one of the stools behind the bar.
“Milk or dark?”
“How is that even a question?” Chris scoffed. “Dark. I’m not five.”
He was wearing his duster and fedora again. I had to give it to the boy—for a straight guy, he knew how to dress. The coat fit him perfectly in the shoulders and was trim to the waist. Even the fedora, which I’d usually make fun of, accented the angles of his face and the color of his scruff. Maybe because his facial hair matched the brassy falcon feather poking up the side.
I dragged my eyes away from him and set about mixing the hot cocoa. I could feel him watching me, but thankfully, Chris didn’t let the silence go on for too long.
“So, question time,” Chris said. I handed him a mug, which he took in both hands. He didn’t look away from my eyes, however. “Why’d you send yourselves to the middle of the woods?”
“Well, I came here as a freshman,” Ethan said. “So it was partly me and partly my parents. I applied in photography and got in. Couldn’t stand public school and I had a feeling I’d fit in even less once I came out.”
“You knew as a kid?” Chris asked.
“I’ve known for ages,” Ethan said. “Just never had a word for it until someone called me a faggot on the playground.” He winked and took a sip of his cocoa. “Kid was right. But hey, I’m here and he’s back in suburbia. I think I’m winning.”
“What about you?” Chris asked. Again, those eyes, pinning me into place. I forced down the nerves and told my voice not to stammer.
“It’s a long story,” I said. I could feel Ethan leaning in. I’d never told him this tale either. And I wasn’t about to. “Basically, I didn’t want to stay in public high anymore, so I sent myself here.”
“It’s kind of funny, isn’t it?” Chris asked, completely ignoring that I hadn’t given him a real answer. “The fact that we really came here to escape the real world? It doesn’t seem like anyone comes here just because they want to study art.”
“Of course not,” Ethan replied. “We’re all running from something. Islington just gives us a place to produce the greatest alchemy.”
“Oh yeah?” Chris asked.
“He means turning pain into art,” I said. “Don’t give him too much credit for his pretty words. It’s still a cliché.”
“Truths usually are, just like the old ‘love finds you when you aren’t looking for it’ adage,” Ethan replied, and went back to sipping his drink. I wanted to slap him.
? ? ?
That night passed by in a blur. I managed to make Ethan sit between Chris and me at the concert, which I could tell unnerved Chris a little bit, but whatever; I wasn’t about to give the impression that I was actually open to dating. After, we met with Oliver and snagged frozen yogurt at the Dark Note and walked in the woods while talking about art and music and what we were going to do after Islington. Oddly enough, college never came up in conversation—it was always the big plans, the dreams so lofty they seemed to rise from our lips in the cold night air to become apparitions, entities in and of themselves. I made Ethan walk me home. I didn’t want Chris to think there was going to be a goodnight kiss.
Elisa and I stayed up a few hours after sign-in, chatting back and forth as we did our homework. For her, it meant reading Sylvia Plath and trying to emulate the style in a series of sonnets. For me, it meant beginning research for my folklore essay. Every now and again I’d make little notes in the margin of my book—not for the essay, but for my thesis. Those Norse had a lot of stuff to draw from. Trouble was, most of it was bloody, and I did not need my brain going in that direction tonight.
When my brain couldn’t take any more talk of Eddas or the Futhark, I closed my book and glanced over to see Elisa already sound asleep on top of her bed, her poetry notebook open beside her and Sylvia Plath plastered over her face. I chuckled to myself and grabbed the book and notebook and slid them into her drawer.
“Night doofus,” I whispered to her, and turned off the light.