Landon’s eyes widened. “Tell them I’m a beginner, too. I want to learn.”
“Right,” Dave said. “And bing, bang, boom, you’re in her bed.”
“Not the point.” Not even a little bit the point. And also vulgar. Though Landon would be the first to tell almost anybody who asked that their chemistry was, and always had been, electric.
“Bing, bang, boom, that fancy fop she’s boinking is out her bed.”
More the point. “Let me helpyouto bed.”
“I like you,” Dave said, “I really do, but I don’t sling that way.” He hiccupped. “Fuck,swingthat way. Except that one time, but we’re not close. Landon, we’re not close yet. I’ll tell you about it when we’re close. And only one of us is a cheater, and that isyou.”
“Uh-huh,” Landon said, gripping both Dave’s arms.
“But you’re gonna get her back, buddy.” He leaned into Landon, letting him move him like a puppet. “Because she doesn’t even fuckingrememberthat you cheated. She doesn’t evenremember.”
Landon wrapped both arms around Dave’s shoulders and hauled him past the kilted man and his terrier, past the front half of a VW bug that looked like it has crashed right into the hostel, up the winding black-and-white tile staircase, and into the long room of beds Dave expended far too many words directing him to. “I want to thank you,” Landon said, leading him to an empty bunk and peeling back the covers.
Dave slipped both feet in and pulled the sheets straight up to his head. “Oi…” he began, fading into heavy, easy breaths. Landon did not begrudge him the sleep—not in the least. He didn’t begrudge anyone rest. Landon only wished there was a way to join the ranks of the living dead without taking the pill that would forever erase Rose from his memory.
Bright and early Thursday morning, Landon marched into the registrar’s office and sold the bubbly young woman behind the counter a story. “I’ve been accepted for next year, into the contemporary art master’s,” he said, the assumption he’d made about Rose’s course of study just one in a long line of assumptions. “And I spoke to the admissions coordinator for the master’s, and he said I could audit a few classes while I’m in town. I’m trying to find the right lodging. You’ve got to, you know, if you’re moving the wife and kids across the pond. I just put down the deposit, and I’m praying I didn’t make the wrong choice.”
The woman puckered her lips.“She,”the woman said, and even in the one syllable Landon detected a lilting Scottish accent.
“Pardon?”
“The admissions coordinator is a woman. Who exactly did you speak to?”
Landon should have been prepared for this, and probably should have spent more time at the shared hostel computer, but one side effect of his off-kilter charm was that he was not particularly practiced in not getting his way. He took a new tack. “I’ll be honest with you,” Landon said, leaning over the desk and dropping his voice. “I’m a prospective student. I just really wanted you to take me seriously. I’m only here for a few weeks, and this is a second career thing for me—a real midlife crisis. The loans are going to be crushing, and I need to know if it’s going to be worth it. Is there anything you can do? I know I should have talked to the admissions coordinator. I really should have. I just want to see what first-year master’s students do in this program.”
At that, she perked up. “You should have said so.” The woman grabbed a pamphlet off her desk and held it up to him. “And I’ll be honest withyou: Professors are much more agreeable to a prospective student sitting in than an accepted one. If they have to do it at all, they’d prefer to be making a sale.”
Landon tried not to let his relief show. “You’re a lifesaver.”
“I do get that a lot.” The woman clicked her mouse three times and studied the screen. “There aren’t many classes at the tail end of the week.” She pulled her large wire glasses down her nose a touch. “And the semester’s winding down. I could get you into a composition class next Tuesday.”
“Is there anything today?” Landon asked, heart threatening to beat straight out of his chest. He couldn’t imagine languishing in the hostel five more days when, for all he knew, Rose was in this building right now, or walking down the street with a tote of supplies in hand. Landon squinted until he could read the nameprinted in gold against the woman’s black name tag. “Catriona, is it?”
“Cat,” she said with a warm smile. “We’ve got some electives on today, but I’m not sure that would give you the information you need.”
“It will,” Landon said. “I’m an elective guy. If the electives aren’t top notch I’ll have to go have my midlife crisis somewhere else.”
The woman chuckled. “How do you feel about life drawing?”
Landon didn’t have the faintest idea what that was. “Can’t get enough of it.”
“It’s not for everybody.”
“If it’s today, it’s for me.”
“Last name?”
He’d thought this far, at least. Landon Calloway had written new Rose a letter. He could not be Landon Calloway. “Burke,” he said. “Jamie Burke.”
“Think you can amuse yourself until two p.m., then, Jamie?” she asked. He nodded, probably too eagerly. “Give me that brochure.” Cat took it from Landon’s outstretched hand and annotated the map in purple pen. “And you think you can find the studio on your own?”
“Yes,” he said, this time sure he was failing to hide his latent emotion. “I’ll find it.”
“If I were you, I’d spend the next six hours tracking down a sketchpad, pencils, and charcoal,” Cat said, suddenly serious. “They’re knee-deep into this work, and if you don’t show up looking thoughtful, Professor Amos is well within his rights to leave you in the hall. It’s sensitive subject matter.”