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The last few hours of my day were spent in silversmithing, my throwaway arts course. I spent so much time staring at canvas or paper that doing something that involved getting hands-on and dirty—and I mean really dirty, like wearing goggles and leather aprons and lighting things on fire dirty—was a nice switch. The studio was in the back of the arts building, near the loading dock. It was one of the few areas in the entire building that didn’t provide some stunning view of the grounds, mainly because the only window looked out on the outdoor welding and soldering area, which was only picturesque if you liked the industrial motif.
By the class’s end at five, my stomach was rumbling and the coffee from this morning had long since worn off. I put away my saw blades and sandpaper and put on the ring I just made for myself—a tiny silver band with little birds cut out. Technically speaking I should have been working on a collection of brooches for my final project, but the instructor, Ginny, didn’t mind. It was one of the few year-long classes at Islington, and by now she’d learned that I always got my shit done on time. Always. So long as I was working on new techniques in class, she wasn’t too bothered if it wasn’t strictly for the project.
After all, how would we learn our own style if we weren’t allowed to play?
“Nice work,” Chris said as I admired the ring.
I tried to hide my blush at the sound of his voice, hoping the extra five seconds it took me to put on my coat was enough to let the rouge fade.
“Thanks,” I replied. And then I did what I’d been training myself not to do this entire school year. I looked him in the eyes and smiled.
There were a few rules in my life that I followed to a T. One: Never ignore an omen. Two: Never pass up a new opportunity unless, you know, you’ll die from it. And three: Never fall in love.
They were all tried and true rules, but Rule Three was the most important. Love was for getting hurt. Badly. Or hurting someone else in the process. It wasn’t safe, in direct violation of Rule Two.
Chris made me want to ignore the rules in spite of all that. And that’s why I had to keep him at arm’s length.
Every time I saw him, I imagined him darting through the woods like an elf. His usual earthy, hand-accented attire only helped that image. He was a senior, like me, with a brown floppy undercut that was almost a mohawk and a goatee. His hazel eyes had that really unnerving habit of not looking away when you were talking to him.
Like they were doing just now.
“How’s your thesis going?” he asked. Again, he didn’t look away, and I know I said it was unnerving, but it wasn’t creepy. It was actually really charming. The unnerving part came from the gravity it created. The pull I’d been fighting from day one. Chris was gorgeous and talented, albeit a few inches shorter than me, and the first two points were definite reasons we couldn’t date. Never, ever trust the pretty ones with your heart. Unless, of course, they’re gay.
“It’s going,” I replied. It took me a moment to realize him saying “thesis” didn’t cause the same violent reaction it usually did. Probably because I was already so focused on not looking into those eyes. “I should be ready though. How about you?”
He ran a hand through his hair and looked over to his shelf in the corner. Jesus, that boy’s jawline. His face was basically the embodiment of aquiline. My fingers itched to sketch him, but that was an alley I was not going down. Getting him alone to stare at him for a few hours? Danger, Will Robinson, danger.
“It’s going,” he repeated, and chuckled to himself. “Who’d have thought doing a dozen different surrealist landscapes would be tiresome?”
“I could have told you that one,” I said. “Though the idea is rockin’.”
He laughed again and slung his canvas messenger bag over his shoulder. “Did you really just use the word ‘rockin”??”
“I did. Is there a problem?”
“Not at all. And thanks. I was worried it was pretentious.”
I shrugged and held open the door for him. The hall outside was mostly empty as the school filtered toward dinner, which I would be skipping to go fishing. My stomach rumbled again, and I mentally assured it there would be plenty of dolmas and hummus to keep it from mutiny.
“You heading to dinner?” he asked.
Okay, what was going on? Was I just overthinking things, or was it honestly unusual for him to have lingered after class to chat when we hadn’t exchanged more than a passing hello all year?
“Actually, no, I’m heading out with a friend.”
“Oooh, is it a date?”
My imagination, or did his smile slip just a little?
“Definitely,” I said. “Though his boyfriend will always have dibs on him.”
He raised an eyebrow and I realized where that mental train was going. Oh Islington, where sexuality was as fluid as the blood in our horny little veins.