make it, took the time to make it beautiful. “I’m scared that it’ll be like this never happened.”
Alice chuckles and then dips her index finger in the maple syrup and swirls it around until she slips it in her mouth. “We won’t go back to what it was like before we came here. We can’t. I read my poems in front of my classmates, in front of my hot-as-hell professor, in front of a bar full of people. And I made friends, and I went out even when it was hard, and I failed sometimes and I succeeded other times. And shit, Abby, you changed entirely. You proved yourself in French and learned so much. You fell in love and made out with one of the sexy guys on campus.”
“Alice!”
Her mouth curls up and she shrugs. “I don’t want to date him, but I’d have to be dead not to admire his physique.”
His physique is effing gorgeous.
I miss Zeke. But not just because I miss his physique, though I can’t deny that I miss that too.
“I hate this.” There are half a dozen white mugs scattered around the table and Zeke and I are in various stages of decorating them to look like the tea sets from Angelina. Our project for this class is a re-creation of the various tours we’ve taken through Paris. There’s really no need to be creating painted mugs for it to be effective, but we’ve run out of things that we need to plan and now I’m just grasping at straws. I’m surprised Zeke is putting up with it, but I’m not going to push it.
I don’t want to stop talking with him. Even if it’s stilted. Even if it’s awkward. Even if we aren’t together, even if we’re fumbling along, even if I’m trying desperately to make these mugs look like something that wasn’t created by a small child.
“They don’t look that bad.” Zeke has been quiet through this art session, didn’t say anything when it turned out that I brought the wrong type of markers. It’s like the bright and vibrant version of Zeke I’ve been sparring with for the whole summer has been replaced by a version painted entirely out of muted watercolors. Though he’d probably say I was drawn out of thick black markers because I can’t stop swearing.
“It’s not the mugs.” I groan.
He places the one he just finished with on the table, careful not to smudge the letters. Because we know from my first two mugs that if you grab them too early, they’re ruined.
“Are you worried about the presentation?” he asks, his eyes on me now. On me, but it’s not the usual focus that I love. It’s casual. It’s guarded.
I don’t care about the presentation.
“Yes,” I say instead, because I can’t keep doing this. He wanted to try and I said it was too hard and he said he couldn’t convince me and I can’t now go back. I can’t tell him that I’ve changed my mind. It’s only been two days. Of course this hurts like mad, and of course I want to tackle-hug him to the ground. That doesn’t mean it’s a good idea.
Nothing has changed. And so . . .
“Do you think Marianne won’t like it?”
No, I think it’s perfect.
“I don’t know. Maybe? I think it might be too short. Maybe we should add one scene?”
I don’t even know what I’m talking about. The presentation is only supposed to be fifteen minutes and we have plenty of material. But another scene will give us another bunch of hours to work together . . .
Zeke shuts his eyes, and my stomach drops. He’s going to tell me to stop. He’s going to say that he knows what I’m doing and I need to stop. That I’m not being fair. Which is true. So true.
“The only thing is, I’m supposed to meet my parents in Boston tonight.” Zeke’s eyes are on me, but not really. Part of me wants to move two inches to the right so he won’t be focused on my shoulder.
Boston. Of course. I try to find the anger but it’s not there. All that’s there is sadness that his trip to Boston is taking more hours away from my time with him.
I’m screwed. “Is something going on?”
He nods slowly. “We’re meeting with a specialist and my coach. She’s looking at all my images and the data from my PT, and she’s supposed to be able to tell them what my prognosis is.”
He