With my thesis closing in, I didn’t hang out with Chris too often, unless he was joining me and Ethan in our work parties. And, seeing as they were presenting at the same time, they were often neck-deep in work and too distracted to talk in the first place. I only caught glimpses of Chris’s project, but I didn’t try to dig too deep. I didn’t have time.
It was strange, really, the way life kicked back into motion. It was like a buoy pulled from the sea: Something was missing, something had forever inextricably, immeasurably changed the fabric of life, but life just surged back in and resumed its process. Kids continued to stress. Concerts and open mics were planned. In the corner of my mind, in every class and every late-night homework session, there was a voice screaming that this wasn’t right, that something—someone—was missing, and things should have felt more different than they did.
But they didn’t. And that made everything feel like a waking dream.
Jonathan’s classes weren’t helping. Whether by design or by chance, we started discussing the rituals and folklore surrounding funerary rites in Nordic countries. If I never had to listen to another discussion on the Valkyries and Valhalla and Hel, I’d be happy. He hadn’t mentioned the study group again, and I didn’t broach the subject. I had more than enough on my plate with finishing my thesis and keeping the voices in my head from regaining control. Being normal was difficult in and of itself. I didn’t need to join a group of people exploring what I so vehemently wanted to avoid.
Every day I got just a little bit closer to being finished with my thesis. The cards I was displaying were all done, save for a few minor adjustments, and I knew I could have had the whole thing finished by now if I’d wanted. But I didn’t. I would lay out the cards on my bed and stare at them and panic or feel a small note of pride. I couldn’t bring myself to say they were done. I couldn’t do the finishing touches, and it took a lot of self-control not to throw them all out and claim that I needed to start over and put off my thesis until the very end. I kept finding things I wanted to change. I kept finding reasons to keep working.
Because I didn’t want to be done. I didn’t want to admit to myself that this was it. Every time I stared down at those paintings, it was like my school year was staring back. And the moment I said it was over, the moment I admitted the project was complete, the dream of Islington I’d been living in so contentedly would vanish.
I couldn’t let that go. Not just yet.
Not when I still had no idea what the dream that came after would be.
It was Friday night. I was lying on my back on Ethan’s bed, his head on my stomach and his stuffed bear, Dudley, under an arm. Some soft post-rock played from his computer, the light dim and drifting down from fairy lights strung in the corners of the room. Ethan’s roommate was out practicing, not that Kyle ever cared when I was over. We’d spent the entire night in the studio finishing up homework and trying to get in some thesis work. I was brain-dead, Ethan was frustrated, and this little ritual of cuddling and listening to music was what had gotten me through some of my most stressful moments at Islington. Trouble was, it wasn’t really working for me tonight.
I hated to admit it, but being in his room hurt. There was something so precious (a word I hated to use) about lying there listening to music and watching snow fall outside the window. The scent of his cologne, the heat of the radiator, the closeness of winter . . . I’d spent all week pretending that this was my life, that this was all there was, and every day I was reminded it was a lie. I was reminded that my list of lasts was growing.
“Have you talked with Chris at all?” Ethan asked.
I shook my head.
“Shame,” he replied.
“Why?” I asked.
“Because he likes you. And you deserve to have someone nice like you.”
I tilted my head to look at him. He shifted on my belly so our eyes met.
“What?” he asked.
“How do you know?”
“We’ve been hanging out. You know, when you’re busy in the studio getting things ready. He’s really cool. I totally approve.”
“I told you I’m not dating,” I said.
“Why?” he replied. He’d never pushed the subject before. Suddenly, the quiet and closeness of the room became claustrophobic.
I went silent. He sat up.
“No, seriously Kaira. I know you dated in the past and it didn’t go well. I’ve been able to fill in the blanks. But why are you against him? He’s not your ex.”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“You never do. Listen, I’m not trying to start a fight or anything. It’s just . . . you’ve been so stressed out lately, and ever since Mandy’s death all I can do is think about time and how we don’t ever have enough of it in general and even less when it comes to being around the people we love, and how Islington just screws all of that up by making us focus on being artists rather than being teenagers with needs and desires and ambitions beyond being stellar creators.” He took a deep breath and ran a hand through his scraggly hair. “What I’m trying to say is, I want you to be happy.”