by Ashley Love
But then I remember the way Blake's lips and hands feel on my body, and I can't find it in myself to truly regret any of it.
18
I'm a little late to the art room, but I'd planned it that way. Everyone else is inside, and they're already setting up. Mrs. Kensington ("Call me Malerie, please," she'd said to us at the beginning of the class) comes over to me as soon as I step through the door.
"You should really think about taking my class next year, Aubrey," she says to me. "You're very talented, if a little rough around the edges."
"Thanks," I mumble, eyes on Blake already. He's on the other side of the room, trying to put his painting on one of the display tables.
"I especially love the contrast," she continues, unaware of my discomfort. "How personal you made it. The minuscule details of the lives of both you and your roommate."
"Thanks," I say again.
"It's very similar to Blake's work, actually," she adds.
I frown. "It is?" I ask, because the two look nothing alike. Not at all.
But she nods, serious. "The contrasting sides that meet in the middle. Of course, his is abstract and yours is a little more literal, but still. It's very interesting to see the way the two of you work together."
"Um." I run a hand through my hair. I don't want to talk about this. "Should I go, like, set up my painting now?"
"Yes, of course!" she says quickly. "Beside Blake's, I think they'd look nice beside each other. But really consider what I said about taking my class, Aubrey. I'd love to have you."
"I will," I promise, if only to get out of there.
I get my painting from the back of the room, where I'd left it to dry days ago. It looks just as I remember, like an exact replica of our room from a few weeks ago, with my signature scribbled in the bottom right corner in white paint. I carefully carry it over to the display table where Blake's still standing, peering down at his own work.
We fucked up Blake's painting last night with our antics, but...it looks better, in my opinion. Even if it brings heat to my cheeks, remembering exactly how that handprint-shaped smudge got there. I place mine down beside it, and I really don't see how they look similar, but whatever. I'm not the art teacher, so...
"Yours looks brilliant," Blake says, peering down at my painting. "Really great. Mine looks like—"
"Thanks," I say for the third time in, like, five minutes, just before I walk away, heading for Cadence and Emma.
Emma's final piece is a drawing of Cadence. It's more cartoonish than anything, but I like it a lot.
"Nice," I say. "It's really good, Em."
"Look who it's of," Cadence scoffs. "Of course it's good. Me and my perfectly chiseled jaw take full credit for this masterpiece."
"Where's your piece?" I ask her.
Cadence grins. "I thought you'd never ask." She grabs my arm and drags me off to a table littered with sculptures. "Guess which is mine. I call it—A Midnight Escape."
"It's a sculpture of an ass," I deadpan. "In a thong."
"God, I'm so talented," Cadence mutters.
I snort and roll my eyes. "You're insane," I correct. "But, uh, before you drag everyone over here to appreciate...that, I just wanted to let you know that I'm leaving tonight."
Cadence gapes at me. "I thought you weren't leaving until Friday!"
"Change of plans." I shrug. "My sister's busy that day, so she asked if it was okay if she came to get me tonight." I don't mean to lie, it's just easier than admitting that I'm really running away because I can't handle being in my own head right now, and I hope that'll be easier when I get home.
Cadence hugs me tightly. "I'll miss you," she says. "I can't believe you're bailing early. But you call me on my birthday, promise?"
"Promise."
"Now go tell Emma. The girl's ridiculously attached to you, she's not going to take it well. I'm not doing it for you."
Cadence wasn't kidding. Emma looks like a wounded puppy, all sad eyes and "Why can't you stay until Friday like we planned? We were going to watch Christmas movies in the common room, and I was going to make us a special microwave dinner."
"We can do that when we get back," I offer. "Even if Christmas has passed."
Emma frowns for a moment, and then a wide grin spreads over her face. "Yeah, alright. Sounds like a plan. Gonna miss you, though."
"I'm gonna miss you guys, too," I say honestly.
"Have you told Blake?" she asks, and I take that back immediately. Maybe I won't miss Emma, not if she asks questions like that.
"No," I say flatly. "Why would I?"
Emma shrugs. "Dunno. Seemed like a reasonable question until you got that mass murderer look on your face."
"Blake's not my friend," I remind her. "He won't care when I leave, and it's none of his business either way."
"Okay," she says, lifting her hands defensively. "I'll have to remember not to ask you about Blake anymore. Apparently it's a touchy subject now."
"It's always been a touchy subject," Cadence reminds her. "Only now instead of bitching about the guy, she gets all panicked, like a caged animal."
I glare at them both, but I don't protest when Emma's arm goes around my waist. I don't protest when Cadence's goes around my shoulders. I don't protest when the two of them guide me from the room, laughing and making promises to buy me lunch to make up for it. I do look over my shoulder though, just once, to find Blake staring after us, a lost look on his face.
19
The entire art room is different for the Christmas party. After we'd left, someone had come in and strung up lights all around the room. They cast it in a soft glow, while another set lines each of the display tables to illuminate the showcased pieces. There's also row after row of plastic chairs set up for the auction, just in the middle of the room, enough space between us and the tables to give everyone room to walk around and see what we've created.
I'm exhausted. After lunch, Cadence and Emma had dragged me back to the dorms to get dressed. I had been forcefully put into one of Cadence's white button-ups and a pair of my own dress pants, and they'd left me to do my hair with promises to do painful things if I left it messy and down like I always do.
And I'm a little nervous. As people stream into the room, dressed in red and white and black and green, everyone color-coordinated with the holidays, my stomach starts to do flips. People move around the room, regarding all the pieces. I watch people stop and look down at my own, but I can't keep doing that because I'm trying to figure out what their faces mean, if they like it or hate it, and it's making me anxious. So I make a beeline for the door, heading for the refreshments room just across the hall.
Of course Blake is inside. He's in a full suit. His hair is styled, he's cleanly shaven, and he looks years younger. And good. He looks good.
"Chocolate-covered strawberries," he says, holding one between his fingers. "Want one?"
"Sure," I say. I reach for the plate of them, but Blake's holding the one in his fingers up to my mouth. Suddenly they don't seem as appetizing as they had literally seconds ago. But I bite it anyway, cracking through the chocolate shell to get to the juicy berry underneath. "It's good."
Blake's gaze darkens, eyes falling to my lips. "Yeah." He shakes his head quickly, like he's clearing his mind. "Is everyone in there, then? Have they done the auction yet?"
"I think they will in a few minutes," I admit. "That's why I'm in here."
Blake nods. "Nervous, too?"
"A bit."
"Come on," he says, nodding towards the door. "Let's just go. Get it over with. Plus, you're going to get the highest bid, you know."
"I'm not," I say flatly. "Other people did way better than I did."
"Just take the damn compliment," he teases. "But if you don't want to go, I'll let you know how it went."
I shake my head. "No, I'm coming." I snag one more chocolate covered-strawberry and follow Blake to the other room. Cadence and Emma are inside now
, sitting at the very back, talking to each other. I go towards them, sinking into a free seat. Blake sits beside me instantly. "When are they starting?"
"Five more minutes," Emma answers.
I nod and swallow.
Five minutes pass awfully fast. Everyone settles into their seats, and Mrs. Kensington goes to the front of the room. And then it begins.
The first piece sells for fifty dollars. The second for thirty. The third for one hundred and thirty. Emma's drawing of Cadence goes for sixty bucks, to Cadence. Cadence's ass sculpture goes for a whopping one hundred and twenty.
When my painting comes up, Mrs. Kensington actually bids on it. I didn't even know she was allowed to. And she wins too, the painting going for one hundred and forty-five dollars. The highest so far. Pride swells inside of me, and Blake and Cadence both elbow me excitedly.
Blake's painting comes up, and he nervously shifts in his seat. So many people bid on it, and the number just keeps rising and rising and rising, until a balding man buys it for a total of two hundred and twenty dollars.
Annoyance goes through me. Not at Blake's painting outbidding my own (and everyone else's), but at the fact that some man is going to take it home. Someone who has no idea how that smudged handprint got there. Someone who has no idea how it was made, what it represents. I want it. I want to outbid him, want to take it home and keep it for myself. But I don't have enough money, and Mrs. Kensington says "Sold!" and the painting is gone.
"Did that just happen?" Blake asks afterwards, after all of the pieces have been sold. "Did—did someone really pay two hundred fucking dollars for my painting?"
"Seems that Blake's been holding out on us," Cadence says. "And here I was under the impression that you were worse at art than a first grader."
I try to think of something to say, something to compliment Blake, but my phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out, read over the text from Claire, and nearly split my face with a grin because finally.
"I have to go," I say, already out of my seat.
"Where?" Blake calls after me, but I'm already at the door.
I'd hugged Emma and Cadence goodbye earlier, warned them that I'd have to duck out early, so it's not like I need to linger behind. I head straight for my room, not looking back once. When I get there, I quickly pack up everything I need at home, mostly just a few integral pieces of my wardrobe and a book or two, and then I leave, shutting off the light and locking the door behind me.
20
Everyone files slowly out of the room after the auction. Blake gets up, too, following behind Cadence and Emma, both bent together, whispering excitedly. Blake still isn't sure if they're lesbos. He thought they were, but the more time he spends with them, the less sure he is. He's never seen them kiss, or hold hands, but they act like they're lesbos.
"Blake."
He turns, eyebrows raised, to find Mrs. Kensington looking at him expectantly, and then he remembers. "Oh, right." He quickly heads over to her, and she hands him the leftover money from the three hundred dollars he'd given her to bid on Aubrey's piece. "Thank you."
"I still don't fully understand why you couldn't bid yourself, but it wasn't a bother," she says with a wave her of hand. "You can take your painting whenever you'd like."
"Is it okay if I leave it here until Thursday?" He doesn't want to bring it back to the room and have Aubrey realize that he'd bought it. That'd defeat the whole purpose of having her bid for him. "I leave then, and this way I don't have to keep it in my room."
"Of course, dear."
"Thank you," Blake adds once more.
This time she only waves him off, moving on to talk to someone else. Blake pockets his money and leaves, heading for his room.
It's thankfully empty when he gets there. That's what he'd planned, so he's grateful, even if it puts him off every time he comes home and Aubrey's bed is unoccupied, or she's not sitting at the desk. Not that she has to wait for him to come home like some obedient puppy, or his stay at home girlfriend or something, but whenever she is there when he gets back, it makes something warm bubble up inside of him.
He's a little nervous as he moves about the room, hanging up the Christmas lights he'd borrowed from the art room, ones that weren't needed for decoration. He also turns on the stereo, just a bit of soft music in the background, one of Aubrey's CDs that he listens to a lot (and he knows she hates it when he touches her stuff, but he thinks it might be okay, just this once). When he plugs in the lights and shuts off the overhead one, the room is cast in soft, glowing light. It looks romantic, or something. Not that Blake's good at romance, but he's trying and that has to count for something, right?
When he's done he takes out his phone, flitting through to his last contact. He'd gotten Aubrey's number off Lucas weeks ago, not that he's used it. Lucas still teases him about it, and Blake's stopped arguing with him over it because Lucas's teasing is justified.
Remember how I asked to talk? Can u come to the room? It's Blake btw he sends, hands shaking just a bit. He's not going to get too excited over this, though. That'd be lame. But he does busy himself with pulling Aubrey's gift out of his dresser, holding it tightly in his hands.
It's not an expensive gift. It's just one of those lights that you stick on the top of your books so you can read in the dark. Blake figured it'd make his life easier, since he and Aubrey constantly fight over her keeping the light on to do work while he tries to sleep. And it didn't seem like an extravagant gift, either. Like something that he'd spent weeks picking out (even if he actually did).
Fifteen minutes pass without a reply or Aubrey coming into the room, and Blake starts worrying his lip between his teeth. Twenty minutes, and he starts pacing the room.
Forty-five minutes later and he gets a short text that reads Sorry, I can't. My sister came to pick me up. I'm on my way home. Happy holidays.
Blake slowly blinks down at the screen. And then he gets up, tossing Aubrey's present into the bottom drawer of the desk before he tears down the lights and crawls into bed, refusing to be upset about this. He should have known something like this would happen. He's always so stupid; Aubrey knows it, and he knows it, too. Why would this be any different?
21
Being at home, for me, is like being able to breathe again. Even if the ride home hadn't been exactly pleasant. Four hours alone in a car with Claire and her shitty music and her texting so much that I confiscate her phone because that's illegal and dangerous and not ideal for anyone. But as soon as I'm home, my mother hugs me and it makes up for the rest of it.
I also get to sleep. No matter how comfortable I get in my dorm room, it's just not the same as being in my bed. Having an entire room to myself. No Blake snoring beside me. Blissfully, happily, wonderfully, completely alone. I can't imagine anything better.
That's what I tell myself, at least, but that first night, even though I don't get home until about one in the morning, I lie awake for what feels like hours, the silence in the room unbearable.
"How did your exams go?" my mother asks at breakfast.
I yawn and sip my coffee, infinitely better than the stuff they serve at the coffee shop on campus. "Better than I thought. Still stressed over them, but I think I did alright."
"Of course you did," she says, with the kind of proud, sincere conviction that only a mother can manage. "And how are your friends? The two you told me about."
"Crazy," I say, smiling into my coffee. "But good. Maybe they'll come visit this summer."
"I'd love that." Probably because I've never really brought anyone home, ever. Except Max, once or twice, but we always snuck in, and he never wanted to meet my family, no matter how many times I begged him. Which, looking back on it, isn't all that surprising.
Just as I always do, I refuse to allow that train of thought to go any farther. I cut off the tracks, hit the breaks on it, and forget that Max ever flitted across my mind.
"And what about your roommate?" my mother continue
s. "Are you two finally settling your differences?"
If settling our differences means fucking the hatred out of each other until I accidentally started to develop feelings for him, feelings that I still don't want to dwell on because they make me sick to my stomach, then yeah. We settled our differences, all right.
"Something like that," I mutter.
"I'm glad to hear it," my mom says. "And I'm glad you're home."
"Me too," I admit. "Really glad."
Me and my mom are always the first up, but it isn't long before my sisters are trampling down the stairs, rubbing sleep from their bleary eyes. My father is already at work, but he'll be back later in the day. And the four of us spend the morning and afternoon first eating breakfast, then doing a bit of grocery shopping (I offer to go, just to get out of the house and have something to do), and then Megan drags me away to show me some of her work from class.
The night is spent in the kitchen, helping my mom cook, and then at the table, having a big family dinner the way we always do. Afterwards my dad invites me to watch sports, and I ask him to explain football to me (which he does, but I'm still mostly lost).
When I get to bed that night, I lie awake for hours, until eventually I pull out one of my books. When I fall asleep, it's with the lights on and the book open on my chest.
22
On Christmas Eve I call Cadence, like I promised. Cadence is a little drunk, though, and she spends the entire six-minute conversation giggling and telling me how much she loves me, and how glad she is that we're friends, and how she didn't think she'd ever become such good friends with someone from school but she's happy that she did. I spend the conversation mostly making noncommittal sounds and picking at my pinky nail.