Page 29 of Roses & Ruin

“I…” I begin, but what’s the use? I squeeze my eyes shut, take a deep breath. But when I open my eyes, Hayden’s already gone, and I’m all alone.

And I realize that he managed to distract me long enough that I didn’t ask him any more questions about the night he saved my life.

Chapter 10

“Can we get a refill, please?”

Our waitress gives Delia a tired smile, pouring coffee into our empty mugs. I lean into the steam, chasing the comfort of that rich, dark smell. Delia brought me to the Alchemist’s Study because it’s within walking distance of Coupland Hall and they roast their own coffee beans using, if Payen University legends are to be believed, actual alchemy.

After last night, we could both use a dose of caffeinated magic.

“So, are you going to tell me what happened after you left the pub?” she asks.

I toy with a napkin, head still down. “Hayden walked me home. He did his hot-and-cold thing with me again.” I rub my tired, swollen eyes. “I know I should be mad at him. I am mad at him. But I also can’t stop thinking about him. When he’s near me, it’s like my whole body just…wants to be closer to him. And sometimes I swear he feels it too. And then the next second it’s like he wants nothing to do with me.” I let out a weak laugh. “Ugh, I sound like every girl who’s ever had a pathetic crush.”

Delia gives me an exhausted smile. “It’s cuz you are a girl who has a pathetic crush.”

I finally notice how worn-out she looks. The dark circles that rim her eyes, how pale and drawn she is. “Delia.” I sit up and reach across the table. “Are you okay?”

“Oh my god, yes. Totally.” She pats my hand and slumps a little. “I’m just dog-tired, dude. I’m not used to so little sleep. Last night was weird.” Delia’s gaze drifts out the café’s large window. She stares at the tiny rain-slick parking lot carpeted in shiny orange and red maple leaves. “Things didn’t work out with Dangly Earring from the bar. He was…gross.”

“Gross? What do you mean by that? He didn’t—”

“No.” Delia snorts, shaking her head. “No, no, he didn’t do anything to me. He sort of turned out to be a loser. And like…” She shudders. “He tasted…bad. Like cigarettes and bong water.”

“That sounds very…not pleasant,” I say weakly, frowning into my coffee mug.

Delia barks a laugh.

We settle the check, coins and bills shuffled across the table. Outside, the crisp air hits us as we thread through campus, talking and laughing until the arts building comes into view.

“Hey, you two.” Bianca sidles up to us after we enter the studio and put on our aprons. “Last night was fun! We should do it again. Although…damn, Rose, are you still hungover?”

“Most likely.” I poke at my blank canvas. “Remind me to stay away from mojitos. And Long Island iced teas. I am so tired.”

I perk up when Julian waltzes in, flashing his handsome smile at the class. I do my best to focus and don’t take my eyes off him as he lectures about color theory. I pinch myself so much to stay awake that when it’s time for us to gather our materials, my arm is covered in small red welts. I lurch, zombie-like, toward the equipment shelves, and by the time I get there, only the crappy palettes are left. My best option is covered in dry paint. I grab a palette knife and take it to the sink, beginning the drudgery of scraping the slab clean.

My phone buzzes. In jerky, clumsy movements, I rearrange the knife and palette to dig the phone from my pocket. It’s a text from my dad. He’s sent me an article on the benefits of joining an intramural sports team. Could be interesting! is his caption.

My hand slips, and before I realize it, the knife I’m holding has cut a small wound in my palm.

“Oh my god, Rose, your hand.” Bianca’s pointing into the sink, horrified.

“Huh?” I look down. Blood is pooling in my palm. The palette and knife are a slick and sticky red. I try not to panic, but I’m not really sure what to do.

“Thanks, Bianca, you can return to your seat.” Julian appears at the sink and reaches around me to switch on the water. His eyes flick down at the blood, and for just a fraction of a second, his lips twist in a subtle grimace. Then it’s gone, replaced by his usual calm. “Let’s just pop this on. And I’ll have those, yup. Thanks.” He gently eases the palette and knife from my grip and sets them aside. “Now, if you could just put your hand right…” He takes my wrist and pulls it under the warm rush of water. “There. Perfect.”

“My phone.” I frown at the counter, where water is spraying slightly on my cracked screen. Julian grabs it, dries it with a paper towel, and sets it down on the counter, out of splash range.

“Make sure to scrub it with soap.” Julian nods at my wounded palm. “I’m sure it will come as a terrible surprise to hear that our instruments are not kept in pristine condition.”

Despite my anxiety, I snort and fill my hands with soap, scrubbing dutifully.

“Let me see.” Julian takes my hand when I’m done rinsing, turning it this way and that. “Good.”

“I’m really tired,” I admit in a low voice.

“No. You don’t say.” His lips twitch. “Come on, then.” He guides me by the elbow to a roll of paper towels. “Take loads of these and press them on the cut.” His eyes are like clovers today. “Stay here.”