We walked along in silence until we reached my dorm, and Liam put his bag down first before grabbing mine and setting it next to his. He framed my face in his hands, then, a slow breath leaving his chest as his eyes searched mine.
“Thank you,” I whispered after a moment. “For coming with me.”
He nodded, thumbing my cheek. “I had a great time with you.”
I should have felt elated at the words, but I couldn’t shake the way my stomach tightened in warning when he pulled me into him and pressed a long kiss to my lips. At the base of it, that kiss wasn’t different than any we’d shared before.
But it was laced with uncertainty, with warning and regret, and I felt all of that seep into my bones the moment he pulled away.
“See you tomorrow,” he promised.
I knew even then he was lying.
There was still a heavy cloud hanging over us when we convened for class again on Thursday, August first.
The Centennial Park bombing had shaken the whole world up, and after a few days off from classes, nothing felt the same as before it happened. But after a brief speech on the fragility of life and all we have to be thankful for, Professor Beneventi tried his best to distract us, giving us our last assignment that he explained would take up the last three weeks of our program.
Liam wasn’t there.
“Emotion,” he said, pacing the room with his hands behind his back. “We have studied many artists in our time together, and have tried our hand at recreating their work. We’ve painted landscapes and still-life, strangers and self-portraits, events and experiences.” He paused in front of my easel, his eyes connecting with mine. “And for our final assignment, we will crack ourselves open at the spine.”
I gulped.
“I want you to tap into your emotions, be they happy or angry or sad or somewhere in-between,” he continued, walking around the room once more. “Bring them to life. Give them color, and range, and depth.” He paused in the middle of the room, looking around at each of us. “Make me feel as you do without saying a word. Reach inside my broken soul and pour a little of yourself into the cracks.”
A girl by the name of Jessica raised her hand. “Should this be abstract? Or a self-portrait? Or?”
“Or,” he answered with a shrug.
Jessica frowned, confused.
“Emotion,” he said again, tapping her easel. “Don’t put parameters on it. Just feel it. Let it paint for you.”
We all seemed to leave class in a daze that day. Between the news of the Centennial Park bombing and the vague assignment that accounted for thirty percent of our grade, it was impossible not to feel a little shaken.
Angela and I curled up on our old couch later that evening, a bottle of wine between us as we watched Michael Johnson break the two-hundred-meter record and fall to his knees in disbelief at the feat. I was happy for the distraction, and the beauty of humanity as the men he beat bowed down to him and congratulated him earnestly.
I wondered after Liam, but tried not to angst over it. Maybe he was still tired. Maybe he took the day to rest. Maybe someone told him about the assignment, and he was already fast at work.
But he was absent the next day, too.
It was all I could do to focus enough to get through class and my internship at the museum. As soon as I was relieved from my shift, I half-walked, half-jogged across campus to Liam’s dorm and beat on the door until Thomas let me in.
“He’s been back in his room since you two got back on Wednesday,” Thomas said with a worried look. “I don’t know what’s going on, but you’re probably wasting your breath trying to find out.”
I sighed. “Thanks, Thomas. You okay?”
He nodded. “Yeah. Just worried about him. He hasn’t eaten much.”
“I brought a sandwich,” I said, patting my messenger bag hanging from my shoulder. “I’ll see if I can get him to eat.”
Thomas nodded, but his brows bent together even more than before. He didn’t believe I’d succeed.
I didn’t either.
I took a deep breath on the other side of Liam’s door before knocking softly and cracking it open just an inch. “Liam? It’s me. Can I come in?”
It was dark in the room, save for a soft orange glow coming from a lava lamp in the corner. I could see his silhouette on the bed, his arm over his eyes, body half-covered by a rumpled comforter. Pearl Jam played from his stereo speakers, and the room smelled faintly of marijuana.
When he didn’t answer, I took it as permission to enter, softly closing the door behind me before I walked over to sit on the edge of the bed. He didn’t even budge when my weight dipped the mattress.