Shades of Darkness (26 page)

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.”

“No, no, don't do that,” he said. He leaned forward, holding his cup in both hands. “This isn't about me.” His voice took on that soft tone, the one guys get when they're trying to be comforting. Trouble was, he pulled it off perfectly.

I leaned back farther in the chair and angled myself to look out the window. A crow watched us from the power line out front. It flapped its wings. My walls crept up higher.
Who are you protecting?
I wanted to scream.
Who are you trying to warn?

“I don't even know why we're having this conversation. I barely know you.”

“Maybe because you know you can trust me.”

“It's not me I'm worried about.”

He sighed.

“I'm not trying to pry. I'm just trying to figure out how to keep you from hurting.”

I glanced out the window. The crow perching there ruffled its feathers.

“It's not your place to protect me,” I said. “I'm sorry, Chris. I just can't do this right now.”

And I was sorry. I really, really was. I hadn't been lying in the kitchen—he was the one straight guy I'd been around who didn't make my skin crawl. He was genuine and cute and talented and he didn't push when he wasn't supposed to. And all of that made it so much worse. He and Jane and Mandy and now the fucking crows; it was too much.

I just wanted a normal senior year. I wanted to graduate and go to college with my best friend and pretend the other shit didn't exist. No occult whisperings, no murders, and no crows.

“It's also not your place to protect me,” he said after a while. I glanced back at him. I'd forgotten I'd even said anything.

I didn't retort though. I knew from the set of his eyes that we'd just go around in circles if I opened my mouth again. Instead, I turned back to the book in my hands and tried to lose myself in poetry.

It worked, for the most part. Chris started reading his own book and we sat there in silence. Not that I could focus on poems. My brain was spinning at a sickening pace and the entire time I was keenly aware of just how far away Chris was from me. His presence was like static, impossible to see and impossible to ignore.

Maybe he wasn't like Brad. Maybe he never would lift a finger to try to hurt me. Maybe he wouldn't push me to do something I didn't want. Hell, maybe we could date and everything would be fine, just like the books and movies I once thought I could live. The fact was, it didn't matter. I was tainted goods. And not because of what Brad had done to me.

I was damned for what I'd done to him in return.

We stayed in that little alcove for a few more hours, both of us reading poetry in silence, occasionally sharing our favorite lines. The heaviness between us dissipated as the snow outside accumulated. It wasn't that I was falling for him or warming up to his presence; I was just too tired to keep my walls up. Chris didn't try to force me to talk. For that, I was grateful. When I stopped freaking out about it, he was actually pretty easy to be around. Which, I suppose, was the problem in the first place.

Somehow we both missed the fact that lunch had come and gone. After a while my stomach's rumblings were too loud to ignore any longer.

“Hungry?” he asked.

“Pretty certain my stomach is eating itself,” I said with a small grin. “Ready to brave the cold?”

“Sure thing,” he said. He pushed himself to standing and held out a hand to help me up. I took it. Something hit the window, causing both of us to jump. It sounded like a snowball, but I caught a glimpse of black feathers. I dropped his hand immediately.

I'm not falling for him,
I muttered to Munin.
You can lay off on the warnings.

I turned my attention back to the room, back to a moment free of ravens.

“You're sure about this,” I said. “About tonight?”

“What about it?”

“You know exactly what.” Even though we were alone, I wasn't about to say anything aloud about Jane or sneaking around.

“I'm sure,” he said. “She was my friend. I want to know what happened. And I think Elisa was right—there's something the school isn't telling us. I think we deserve to know the truth.”

The truth.
Such a difficult premise. If he ever found out about me, would he think I'd lied about my past? Or would he see that my greatest truth was in trying to protect him?

“Okay then,” I said. I forced myself back into witty banter mode; it was a coping mechanism that kept me from going under. “Just remember it was your choice when the FBI takes you in for questioning.”

He laughed. “Trust me, the FBI is nothing compared to my parents.”

•  •  •

We stepped into the Dark Note and Chris ordered a round of cheese-stuffed breadsticks, two vanilla frozen yogurt shakes, and a veggie burger with fries.

“Is that all for you?” I asked as Ike rang up the total.

“Nope. We're sharing this. I expect a total
Lady and the Tramp
moment when we eat one of those breadsticks.”

I couldn't help it; all the stress of the last few days and the last few hours in particular just . . . cracked. I burst out laughing and couldn't stop myself until I started snorting, and had to cover my mouth with my hand.

“Wow, I didn't realize I was that funny,” Chris said.

“You're not,” I said. “And thanks.”

He handed me a milkshake and picked up the tray of deliciously greasy food.

“You're welcome. And also, ouch.”

I nudged him with my shoulder as we walked over to a little table by the window. Outside, a couple of underclassmen—and a few seniors—were knee deep in a snowball fight.

“It's weird,” I said, watching the kids duck and throw and generally reinforce the idea that art kids aren't good at sports.

“What? Their technique? Because you're one hundred percent correct.”

“No, this.” I gestured to the caf and the store with its couple of students looking at books and hoodies and the kids outside playing war. “It's like there's this gut-deep human need to gloss things over and move on.”

“I don't think it's glossing things over,” he said. “I think it's honoring the dead. I mean, what better way to celebrate the life they lived than live a life yourself?”

I glanced at him.

“ ‘What have you done with the garden that was entrusted to you?' ” he asked.

“What?”

“Antonio Machado,” he said. He winked. “What, you think you're the only one who reads poetry?”

I grinned, half tempted to ask him to recite the rest of it, when the door opened and Ethan and Oliver walked in.

“
There
you are!” Ethan called out, bounding over. “See, Oliver? I told you my stomach always knows best.”

“You just wanted cheese sticks,” Oliver muttered, only a few steps behind his boy.

They were both bedecked in full winter apparel: puffy snowpants and coats, beanies, scarves, and—

“Are you wearing matching mittens?” I asked.

Ethan just grinned and held up his hands. Yup. Big purple mittens.

“You two are adorable,” Chris said, shaking his head. “That's the problem with gay couples: We straighties just don't stand a chance in terms of matching adorableness.”

“Truth,” I said, gesticulating the point with a breadstick. “I mean, have you seen Neil Patrick Harris and his family? Their Halloween costumes put us all to shame.”

Ethan snagged a few fries while I was talking.

“You better pay for those,” I said.

“I'm sure Chris takes credit.”

“What are you two lovebirds up to, anyway?” Oliver asked.

Oliver sat down and Ethan went for another fry. I slapped his hand and he gave me an exaggerated pout. I just stuck out my tongue and then glared at Oliver—I hadn't missed that “lovebirds” slip.

“Just chilling,” Chris said. “Somewhat literally.”

“I know, right?” Oliver said. “It's amazing out there.”

“Finally a man who appreciates good weather,” Chris said. “You deserve a fry.”

“Oh sure,” Ethan said. “Playing favorites now are we?”

“Yup,” Chris replied. “And your boyfriend's winning.” He tossed a fry at Ethan, who chuckled and threw one back. They were going to get us banned for life.

•  •  •

I wandered back to my room alone, leaving the boys to chat. Elisa wasn't in, which I felt bad for being a little relieved about. She would have asked me about Chris, no question, and
that
wasn't a conversation I looked forward to, mainly because I knew she wouldn't let me live it down.

It was only when taking off my coat and feeling a familiar rustle in my pocket that I remembered the note Jonathan had left for me.
Shit.
Not that I'd really intended on going to the tutorial, but I felt guilty for forgetting. It was clear it was important to Jonathan, and I really did appreciate him as a teacher. But I just couldn't handle anything else right now. My plate overfloweth.

Besides, I was trying to stay
away
from talk of gods and the supernatural. A study group devoted to just that would be my downfall. So I grabbed a book and started my reading for American Civ. Spending the day with Chris had been a nice diversion, but it didn't actually accomplish any of the work I'd set out to do. Not that I could really focus; all I could think about was the sketchbook crammed under my bed and the sketch of Jane, and whether or not the art studio would confirm my growing fears.