Even though it was barely tilting into afternoon, the sky above was heavy and gray when we stepped into the Writers’ House. A few students were already in the foyer, reading or typing away on computers. In the kitchen, I filled the electric kettle with water and began rummaging around in the cabinets for hot cocoa.
Something felt different between us now, and as I looked at him I realized what it was: He was no longer just a pretty face and a quirky sense of fashion. He was human. And some part of me ached to connect with that. To lay down my own fears and demons and be seen as a human too. As much as I could be.
Trouble was, I’d spent too many years in the dark, too many years pretending being alone and unwanted didn’t hurt like hell. People didn’t want that me, the real me, the me who stared at shadows and didn’t know anything about her real family, the ones who gave her up to die. No one wanted that truth. So I had to create the image that I was wanted. That I was stronger.
“What are you thinking?” he asked, stepping up beside me. I ripped open the packets and poured them into the mugs. Handmade ceramics, probably from a graduate.
“About chocolate,” I lied.
“Uh huh,” he said.
“Why is it,” I asked, pouring water in the second mug, “that I’ve only really known you for a few days, but feel more comfortable around you than I should?”
And why doesn’t that scare me as much as it should?
I didn’t expect an answer, and I didn’t even really mean to ask. But now that the words lingered in the air, I knew I couldn’t take them back. It felt like standing at the crossroads, waiting for direction.
“I don’t know,” he said after a moment. “I’ve been wondering the same thing.”
I set the kettle down.
“I can’t fall for you,” I said.
“Why not?” he asked.
“Because,” I whispered, suddenly aware that we were still in an open kitchen and people might be listening in. “Love is dangerous.”
“That’s what makes it worth it.”
I turned to him then, and looked him right in the eyes. He had shown me his very human past. Maybe I needed to show him mine. Even if there was nothing human about it.
“The last time I was in love,” I said, “people got hurt. Bad.”
“That’s a part of life,” he replied.
Gods, his eyes. I couldn’t stop looking into those eyes.
“No,” I whispered. “This wasn’t.” I wanted to look away. I didn’t want to say what was on my tongue, not while he was staring at me with so much intent.
“What happened?” he asked.
“I was hurt,” I replied. A flicker of truth. “And the guy . . . he died. His name was Brad. The first and only guy I ever dated. And he died.”
He died because he hurt you, some shadowed voice in me whispered.
He died because he deserved it.
Chris didn’t push the subject, probably because I pushed a mug of hot chocolate into his hand before he had the chance. He didn’t say anything while I walked away, just followed me up the stairs, past the painting of a giant orchid, and into a little back alcove where Ethan and I set up shop when we weren’t doing art or out fishing.
The room back here was often unused, just a couple of loveseats beside the window and a bookshelf containing the works of a few hundred poets I’d never heard of and would probably never read. That said, I had made a dent in the first shelf—poetry was a fantastic way to distract myself from my real homework. Especially when it was borderline erotic.
Another perk of Islington: no stupid committees banning books. Here, they knew that knowledge really was power, and that we were all mature enough to read about the things we’d already been thinking since puberty.
I pulled out a collection of Anne Sexton poems and flopped down on one of the chairs, setting my mug on the coffee table between them. Chris sat across from me as I opened the book and pretended to read.
“You’re not going to tell me what happened, are you?” he said after a while. I looked up from my book.
“I don’t tell anyone what happened,” I said.
“Not even Ethan?”
“Especially not Ethan.”
He took a sip from his hot chocolate, his eyes dipping to his mug for just a moment. I took that second to breathe and compose myself.
“Why not?” he asked.
“Because I just don’t like talking about my past, okay? It’s not fun.”
“But it’s still bothering you,” he said. “And you didn’t answer the question.”
“Ethan wouldn’t look at me the same, that’s why. And neither would you.”
“I told you about my sister,” he said.
“That’s not how this works. This isn’t a you tell me your secrets, I’ll tell you mine equal exchange.” Shit, that came out harsher than I meant. But he was circling around one of my biggest buttons, and I didn’t know what I’d do if or when he hit it. I took a deep breath, inhaling the cocoa fumes and wishing they’d calm me down. I should have gone for chamomile tea. “Sorry,” I said. “I don’t mean to be a bitch. I really do feel bad about your sister.”