Merde.
Carter shows up at eight, meaning he’s already been to the gym. He has that loose, settled quality he gets after lifting, his shoulders dropped and his stride unhurried. He comes through the studio door the way he comes through every door: like he and the room have an understanding.
A few of the other students glance his way, but mostly no one cares. Carter is wearing a Hargrove University swimming hoodie and joggers that have survived at least three semesters past their dignity. He dresses the way he exists: without effort, in clothes that suggest the concept of trying has simply never introduced itself. On most people it would look like giving up. On Carter it looks charming, because that’s one of his natural talents—to be liked by mostly everyone.
“You look like you slept here,” he says, pulling a stool from under one of the tables and dropping onto it with the graceless ease of someone who trusts every surface to hold him.
“Six.”
“Hmm.” He stretches his legs out in front of him and tilts the stool back on two legs. I’ve watched him do this a hundred times without falling. The laws of physics bend slightly for Carter, the same way social rules do. “What are you working on?”
I shift my body to block the piece on the table. I don’t want him to recognize the shape. “Nothing finished.”
“Right, so that’s why I asked what you’re working on, not what you’ve finished.” He grins stupidly and leans sideways on the stool, craning his neck to see. I lean with him, blocking his view.
“Early concept. Barely a form.”
“Dorien.”
“Carter.”
He lets it go. That’s the thing about him, the thing that’s kept us close since we were kids when most friendships from that age crumble under the weight of actually growing up. Carter knowswhen to push and when to leave a thing where it sits. He doesn’t need to crack you open to feel close to you. He’s content to sit beside the locked door and keep you company, trusting you’ll open it when you’re ready. Or not. And that’s fine too.
I go back to the clay, pulling a fresh block from the shelf and starting again. Clean start. No neck. No collarbone. No one. Nother.
“So.” Carter crosses his arms and settles deeper into the stool. “Fall semester. New year. Fresh start. Lot of people back on campus.”
“A staggering number of people attend this university. You’re right. I wish there were less.” I make a cut in the clay. If I approach it more aggressively, it won’t take on such a familiar form.
“Lot of familiar faces returning.”
“That is generally how semesters work.”
He pauses to run a hand through his brown hair, which I recognize as a tell. Carter touches his hair when he’s either stressed or setting something up, and the slight curl at the edge of his mouth confirms which one it is.
“Maybe you’ll see June around campus more this semester, huh?” He places the words carefully, the way you set a glass on a table you’re not sure is level. “Wouldn’t that be nice?”
I dig my thumbs into the grey clay and turn it. “I see a lot of people around campus. I see you most of all, even though you don’t actually go to this school.”
He touches his chest like he’s offended. “Excuse me. I do go to this school. I paid for my classes.”
I snort. “They’re all audited. Honestly, I don’t know how you don’t flunk out of HargroveU since you’re never there.”
“I’m the world’s greatest multi-tasker,” he says. He leans forward to watch me attack the clay. “Besides, the coursework is easy.”
I only respond with a grunt because I’m getting into my piece now and my brain is shutting the rest of the world out, including Carter.
But he doesn’t care; he pulls me back to reality anyway. “So… about all those people on campus. You wish there was less so it’d be easier to run into a certainsomeone?”
I tear off a chunk of clay. “You’re annoying.”
He just laughs. “I heard you two were real chatty at the gallery. At least, that’s what June was telling her mom.” He grabs some discarded clay and starts rolling it into a football shape. “I wasn’t eavesdropping, those two are just so loud the entire house can hear.”
I press harder than I need to and the clay splits under my palm. I fold it back over itself. “Chatty? That’s a ridiculous suggestion and I’m embarrassed for you.”
Carter laughs again, low and easy. He doesn’t push further because he never has to. He’s planted something and he knows it’ll grow on its own schedule. That’s Carter’s gift, or his weapon, depending on the day. He can say one sentence and leave it sitting in the room between us like an object. I won’t pick the thing up, but I’ll still be turning it over in my head at midnight, staring at the water stain on my ceiling, listening to someone’s bass vibrate through the wall.
Guess we were “chatty.” Was that June’s term for it? He’s June’s cousin, and he lives with her, Aeron, and their mom in a house on campus. I’m sure he’s heard plenty of gossip, and now he’s got me wondering how much is about me.