“I don’t know what that means!” she called as the door shut behind me. I just smiled.
Chris was waiting in the lobby, sitting on one of the tall stools and staring at the wall. The RA on duty must have been watching a movie in the lounge with the girls, as there was no one behind the desk. I paused coming down the stairs, taking a brief moment to do one of those stalker-y once-overs of him. With his duster and boots, he kind of looked like a longhaired David Tennant, or some gearless steampunk aficionado, minus obligatory goggles. I could just imagine painting him standing on the edge of a canyon, everything red and ocher, a dirigible silhouetted in the setting sun.
He turned and caught my stare. His face lit into a smile. And as much as I hated to admit it, that smile made me smile back. I continued down the steps like I hadn’t just been staring.
“Hey,” he said, hopping off the seat.
“Are you stalking me now?” I asked.
His smiled dropped.
“I mean, we did just see each other like twenty minutes ago,” I continued.
“I know. But I got back to my room and realized that being alone was very boring. So I thought I’d hang out with you.”
I pushed down the bubble of happiness that I was the first person to come to mind.
“Okay then. What’s the plan, Stan?”
He shook his head. “You’re the only person I’ve ever met who talks like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you,” he said. He chuckled. “Anyway, I didn’t really have any ideas. Maybe a movie or . . . ?”
I buttoned up my peacoat. Sitting down with him to watch a movie ventured into dangerous romantic territory. I needed to keep this light. Friendly. Normal. And perhaps most importantly, I needed to keep moving.
“We’ll do what we always do at art school. We’ll walk.”
We wandered down the lane, past the art building, away from the lake. The woods and Writers’ House were both ahead, neither as inviting as they used to be.
“Probably not as exciting as what you’re used to back west,” I said. I wouldn’t lie; a small part of me was a little jealous of him for getting an urban childhood. My own small-town upbringing had been far from exciting and far from inclusive. At least, if I’d grown up in a bigger city, I might have had more opportunity to . . . what? Find more kids like you? That’s not really a thing, you know—not many kids talk to birds.
“I only lived in Seattle a few years,” he replied, pulling me out of my thoughts.
“Oh yeah?”
He nodded. “My parents move around a lot. Before that it was Vermont. Then Massachusetts. Then Wisconsin. Before that was . . .” He paused and shook his head. “Needless to say, it made settling in difficult, but I’ve sort of gotten used to being a guest in other people’s lives.”
I couldn’t tell if he was being morose or if this was him opening up. Guess it didn’t really matter either way.
We passed the concert hall. Music drifted from many of the practice rooms—snippets of Bach, strings of jazz, even a hint of funk. I wondered if Oliver was in there, practicing his way to eventual fame. At least the place wasn’t silent like before. This was a sign that Islington was moving forward. Slowly, but surely.
“What brought you to Seattle?” I asked.
“Same thing that brought my parents to Detroit. Work. Honestly, I think they just kept changing locations so they won’t have to focus on . . .” His words caught, and he looked away, which pretty much said everything he couldn’t say. “On other things.”
He shook his head. “Sorry. Don’t mean to be a Debbie Downer.”
I laughed. “Clearly you’ve been hanging out with me too much. Pretty certain I’m the only person under eighty who uses that phrase anymore.”
He chuckled too, and when his gaze darted to mine I felt a new, not altogether uncomfortable knot form in my stomach.
“Okay then, my anachronistic friend. My turn for the questions. Why painting?”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
We were passing by the Writers’ House, and I almost nudged him in, but I knew the moment I stopped walking was the moment I started thinking about other things. Especially in there; it felt like Elisa’s questions were haunting that space. If we walked in, I’d be able to think of nothing beyond the question I didn’t know if I wanted answered: Had Jane and Mandy actually killed themselves?