Gwen, as it happened, exclusively liked women, and was (for the most part) safe from the hordes of first-born men at Ouverham who otherwise would’ve doggedly courted her. The Riordan name demanded reverence in Maine’s most coveted social circles. Yet despite hailing from one of the larger landowning families on the mainland, Gwen lacked the entitled demeanor displayed by many of her Gilded peers. It wasn’t onlyher striking intelligence and rather wild appearance (see: pink hair). Very few students at Ouverham were openly queer. Gender roles were rigidly enforced, which was why I’d been so transfixed by Casimir’s earring. Because even something as innocuous as anearringwill get you looks on this campus. Gwen’s sexuality marked her as other, and on the Isle of Lorn, if daughters made for undesirable heirs, one could only imagine how they treated queer ones.
I shuddered in disgust. “Gwen,pleaserefrain from using the wordssex appealandSkinnerin the same sentence! I’m trying to enjoy my breakfast.”
Gwen giggled into her saucer and then smacked her lips thoughtfully. “His lack of basic hygiene would send anyone running from that dour little office.”
I grinned at the image. “Even if—may the godsforbid—a human woman agreed to go out with him, I seriously doubt they’d enjoy hearing about Odysseus’sheroic journeyfor three or four hours.”
“Butmy dearMiss Farrow,” she mimicked Skinner’s unctuous drawl, “You are forgetting that I am a nationally accreditedexperton Greek nymphs and goddesses.”
I snorted into my plate, earning a few scandalized looks from a group of girls several rows down.
Gwen reached out a clawed hand to caress my cheek, her features fixed into a dour expression.
I attempted to bat it away as I doubled over with giggles.
“I could draw Aphrodite’s tits with mathematical accuracy if you’d only allow me a pen and paper?—”
Abruptly, Gwen’s smile slipped from her lips. “But I forgot. Your dad taught Ancient Greek Literature at Portland, right?”
At the mention of my father, I went still. “Yes,” I replied, somewhat reluctantly. “He taught the same subjects as Skinner. And Shakespeare too. He wasn’t… tenured,” I admitted with some embarrassment.
Gwen nodded, and her expression betrayed no signs of judgment or surprise. “You never talk about him, Arden. You can, you know.”
I fought back a grimace. Gwen’s heart was always in the right place—to the point that I sometimes wished she was a touch more self-absorbed. “I know,” I mumbled. “It’s just… things were bad, those last few years. He was gone a lot.”
She nodded sympathetically. Gwen’s gaze drifted somewhere beyond my shoulder. Then her eyes went wide.
I swiveled around to see what—or who—had altered her expression.
It was August, standing by the tray-return, looking as strange and gray as he had last night. Our gazes collided across the room. Before I could do so much as blink, he turned and strode swiftly toward the exit.
Gwen’s eyes darted between the pair of us, noting the exchange warily. “Did something happen between you two?” she asked tentatively.
I bit down on the inside of my cheek. I didn’t want to lie to Gwen, but I also wasn’t in the right headspace to talk about the fallout of my disastrous relationship with August. Not yet anyway. Reluctantly, I glanced back at Gwen. “Nothing’s wrong,” I said. “August and I are just no longer… erm?—”
“Hooking up?” Gwen offered with a tilt of her brow.
“Seeing each other,” I finished.
“And was it… mutual?”
I shot her a pointed glare. “I’d rather not talk about it, if it’s all the same to you.”
It was Gwen’s turn to sigh. “Oh, Arden. I would never say I told you so—” she began.
“Then don’t,” I growled.
“I just want what’s best for you.” There was a note of pleading in her voice.
I fought the urge to make a biting retort.
Later, as we returned our trays, Gwen wondered aloud, “Do you think you’ll get back together?”
“Maybe,” I said, ignoring the copper tang that flowed over my tongue at the lie.
Doubtful, I thought privately.
“Or maybe you’ll meet someone new!”