Hiya Readers
Release day is almost upon us!!! If you don’t want to wait, remember to head over to my store to buy Who We Might’ve Been direct from yours truly for 25% off. On July 26th, the price goes up to retail price.
xoxo Dana
Chapter Three
“Alright, folks!” Rivera waltzes into the photo lab, notebook tucked under a thick arm. “We have five weeks till finals, and shit’s getting real.”
There’s a chorus of subdued laughter, and I switch my phone to vibrate and pocket it.
Rivera stands in the middle of our circle of desks. “Unless you were sleeping, you remember our final is a partner project. Don’t get your hopes up, folks. I’m the one assigning partners!”
Several students groan.
“You’ll get your partners and the rubric today, but most of your work will be outside of class.” He drops his notebook on the desk and withdraws a thin stack of paper. “You have to finish the current assignment, so don’t get too excited about a new one.”
He hands the stack to the nearest student, who takes a rubric and passes the rest on. I examine my copy while he reads off the assignments.
“Ogden and Clark. Alanis and Coopersmith.”
The assignment seems straightforward. Like our previous projects, we’ll use black and white film and our SLRs. Contrast is essential for our compositions.
“Rooney and Davis.”
Unlike our previous assignments, which have focused on cityscapes and an occasional found object, this project is a portrait. Thus the partner.
“Dixon and Finnick.”
My chest constricts. I glance up to locate her.
Dahlia Finnick sits on the opposite side of the classroom, reclining in her chair. The separation was more my doing than hers. Once I discovered we shared the class, I knew I had to keep my distance. We haven’t exchanged more than two sentences since we went our separate ways last May, and my life has been the better for it.
Her features are soft but distracted as she plays with her pen. She too looks my way, and at last, her eyes focus. Her hair, always loose and long, is up in a tight bun. The little makeup she wears is haphazard.
“It’s a shame.”
When I turn, Jay Ogden nudges me with an elbow. He uses the enlarger next to mine in the darkroom.
“What is?”
He rises from his seat with an aloof shrug. “I was hoping Rivera would assign us together.”
“Oh.”
On the other side of the classroom, Dahlia’s intense gaze focuses on the pen twirling around her fingers. She is the last person I want to do this project with. I would’ve much preferred to spend hours alone with Jay than her.
“That would’ve been nice.”
Jay’s subsequent smile is wide. “I guess I have to work with Keith, though. See you.” And he disappears across the room to find his partner.
We exchange an occasional sentence while working in the darkroom, and he’s always nice. But that’s the most in-depth conversation we’ve had in the three months since the semester began.
“Let’s do this.”
This time, it’s Dahlia.
Once in the darkroom, she heads for her enlarger, red from the safelight. Once again, her station is located on the opposite side of the room from mine.
I lean against the counter while she sets up, and in my pocket, my phone buzzes. I make sure no one has any photo paper out before withdrawing the device.
Imogene’s face pops up on the screen. Urgent, the text says, and I roll my eyes. When can you talk?
I’m in class now, I send. Tonight?
“Can you get together in the studio this weekend?” Dahlia’s curt tone draws my attention. “You must want to get this over with.”
“Shouldn’t be a problem. I work Saturday, but the gallery closes at five. Otherwise, my weekend’s free.”
“I’ll put us on the schedule. Maybe Saturday night. No one else will want the spot. You have the same number, right?”
It’s true. We’re closing in on finals, so the photo lab is usually booked, but most students will be out drinking on Saturday night. Abstaining from alcohol has its perks.
“Yeah, that sounds good.”
She returns to her transparent sheet of negatives for our current project. That must be my cue to leave.
But I can’t stop watching her.
This is the first time I’ve really looked at Dahlia since our friendship fizzled out last spring. At the time, she was spiraling out of control. She doesn’t seem any healthier now.
Her skin-and-bone body is ghostly pale. Her cheekbones, her collarbone, and the bones in her forearms are significantly visible. The low-cut tee reveals the smooth curve of her cleavage, but even her breasts are smaller than last I saw.
“What the fuck are you staring at?” She turns to me sharply, her face contorting with irritation.
I step back. “Nothing.” I retreat toward my enlarger across the room. “I’ll see you this weekend.”
“Okay.” Prue stretches across my bed, holding her notebook above her. “Illumination.”
I play with a loose thread from my sheets. “Most Gothic illuminated manuscripts were royal bibles and psalters from the middle of the Thirteenth Century, but during the latter end of the century, they started making prayer books with illumination for laypeople. God, Prue, why do I have to answer the questions?”
She snickers. “Because I learn better from playing teacher than student. And you have all this memorized.” She pauses to frown at her notes. “And ‘book of hours’ is the term you were looking for.”
“Yeah, okay. We should be working in the painting studio.”
Prue shoots a glance in my direction, a smile on her red lips. “When you have your private studio, we can study while you paint. Until then, I’d rather be here where we can be comfortable.”
Despite myself, I quiver in anticipation. “Oh, come on. I doubt I’ll get it. I’m a junior, and there are ten available.”
It would be an amazing opportunity. There are so many class studios in the art building, but the individual studios are reserved for students who apply so they have somewhere private to work. Most of those students are seniors working on their final project, but I want to spend this spring working on a number of personal painting projects. It doesn’t exactly give me precedence, but I can dream.
Prue squeezes my knee. “Yeah, but you deserve it.”
On the nightstand, my phone vibrates, and I stretch to reach it. Dahlia’s name flashes across my screen. I didn’t have the nerve to remove her from my contacts—our friendship meant too much to me. Apparently, that was a good thing.
I booked the photo lab for 10 Saturday night. Dress nice, the text says.
I stare at that message until the phone turns black.
When I look up, Prue sets her notebook down and pushes up on her elbows. “You okay?”
“I’m alright.”
“What’s the text?”
I slide the phone onto my nightstand. Where am I supposed to begin? “I should’ve said something as soon as I saw you…”
Prue waits, concern etched on her face.
“Dahlia and I are working on a project together.” My gaze shifts to the open art history book on the bed between us. “We didn’t get a choice. After running into her this weekend, I’m nervous. She gets under my skin.”
“You’re worried you’ll get caught up in her again?”
I force myself to meet Prue’s rich brown eyes. “Yeah, I am. I know she made everything worse during one of the most trying times of my life, but I have a soft spot for her.”
She quirks her head. “It’s okay to care about her. You two were close. Just be careful.”
“Right. Careful.”
I’m not sure how well I can manage careful. Not when Dahlia’s involved.
Prue’s brow creases with uncertainty, and she searches the textbook. “You know, I always thought she…” She hesitates, and the creases in her forehead tighten.
“Thought she what?”
On the nightstand, my phone lights up again.
This time, it’s a phone call.
It must be Imogene. But she never calls from the house phone. She has a cell.
“Yeah?”
“Hi, Billie.”
It’s Mom.
Things have been calm and fine, but we’ve barely spoken since her wedding. This must be important.
“What’s going on, Mom?” I shift, trying to relax, but I’m tense.
“I have an announcement. Your sister insists I should’ve told you sooner, but we wanted to be sure there weren’t any complications before broadcasting it everywhere.” She pauses a beat. “I am twenty-three weeks pregnant. The baby is healthy, and the pregnancy so far has been easy—”
“Wait, what?”
I cannot wrap my head around this.
She’s three months away from her fortieth birthday, and they’ve been married for seven months.
“You’re going to have a younger sibling.”
If—when—this child is born, it will be twenty-one years younger than me. That isn’t remotely sibling-like.
But Mom continues: “We’ve switched my lithium to smaller doses, and they’re checking it three times a week now to make sure there aren’t any adverse effects. So far, everything is going well.”
“Okay.” My voice is weak.
But I don’t know what to say or think.
I never imagined she would have another child.
Or that she would keep it from me for more than half the pregnancy.
“Are you alright, Billie?”
My phone beeps. A text or something.
I clear my throat. “Uh, yeah. Congratulations.” I doubt my voice is convincing. I’m still in shock.
“I imagine you’re studying or something.” She releases a little sigh. “I’ll let you get back to it.”
“Okay. Talk to you later.”
When we hang up, I check my phone. That beep was my alarm, not a text.
“You okay?” Prue asks.
I slip off the bed. “I have to take my pill. You want a bottle of water or something?” I’m not capable of reassuring her yet.
No amount of smiling could hide her worry. “Water would be great. And then, we’ll finish this study session, Ms. Dixon.”
I withdraw the bottle from my top drawer and tuck a blue pill under my tongue. I really should be better about keeping a drink in my room for these moments, but I slip through the door—and hope no one is downstairs.
I don’t get my wish.
In the kitchen, Jimmy and Micaela take turns eating Doritos from the bag. Micaela grins the second she notices me. “Hi, Billie!”
Last time I brought glasses up to my room, I had to wash an impromptu load of laundry because Prue spilled all over my bed. So I retrieve two water bottles from the fridge and flash Micaela a smile.
As I open the first bottle, the front door opens and closes in the distance.
I hold my breath.
Luckily, the footsteps recede up the stairs. I cannot handle interacting with Xander right now.
“Do you have plans tonight?” Micaela leans against the counter. “We’re going to practice in his room. I think I might have convinced Jimmy to search for bandmates. You wanna be our first victim?”
I gulp down more water and twist the lid on. “No, thanks. I’m studying for art history with Prudence.”
“Oh.” Disappointment laces her voice, but she keeps her grin in place. “Well, if you need a break, stop by his room and listen to a song or two.”
Beside her, Jimmy uncomfortably stuffs his face with more chips.
The footsteps are back. They’re too heavy to be Prue’s.
“Cool.” I grab the second bottle off the counter and step toward the stairs. I need to get the fuck out of here. “Gothic architecture’s calling my name. Later.”
I slip past them, but Xander turns the corner. We barely avoid a collision.
For a moment, all he does is stare.
Less than fifteen minutes after his last class of the day, he’s dressed in his black slacks and red Draft Horse tee. He must have work right away.
“Do you have time to listen to a song, Xander?” Micaela’s voice is barely louder than the blood pounding through my ears.
I blink and step aside.
“Nah.” He slips past me and rifles through the freezer. “I work in ten. I need to head out now.” He tears open a Go-Gurt from the door.
I press against the wall outside the kitchen doorway. To my right, the stairs lead up to the bedrooms, but my legs are shaking from the close encounter. Even living with him, I’m not used to him paying attention to me. We don’t look at each other. We don’t talk.
“Oh, that sucks,” Micaela says.
Jimmy releases a short chuckle. “When are you done tonight?”
“Working till close. See you later.”
Xander heads toward the front door—in the opposite direction. Thankfully, he doesn’t notice me. The door shuts quietly behind him.
In the kitchen, Micaela clucks her tongue. “He works a lot.”
Jimmy sighs. “Seriously, Micaela, if you’re interested, you can ask him out.”
“No, no.” She titters, and her voice trembles. “I mean, I am interested, but he already knows. He wouldn’t wait for me to make the first move if he reciprocated.”
“Well, he’s…”
“Just interested in sex?”
“Yeah.”
“That, um, exchange with Billie was awkward.”
Jimmy inhales sharply. “You know, they’re in a weird place right now.”
“They’re both really closed off. Is that why they broke up?”
“Something like that…”
I swallow the saliva pooling in my throat and force my legs up the stairs.
Prue accepts the unopened bottle with a quiet, “Thanks,” and I take the spot beside her with my own drink. “Okay, we need to go over Jean Pucelle.” After a quick drink, she’s ready to study more.
I groan. “Can’t we take a break? We’ve been doing this for the last three hours. I’m tired of Gothic history.”
She nudges away her notes, her face softening. “What was that conversation with your mom about?”
I frown and take a drink. “I’m going to be a big sister.”
Prue cocks an eyebrow. “Aren’t you already a big sister?”
“Again?”
She stifles a laugh. “So…is your mom pregnant?”
I nod.
“That’s crazy. You’d be more like an aunt than a sister.”
“Yeah, I will.” I glance at the book. “I don’t know what to say about it. I mean, I’m…”
“In shock?”
I shrug.
“We can talk about something else if you want.”
I shift, and my focus gravitates toward the door. As much as my mother’s latest news overwhelms and shocks me, I can’t shake the discomfort from downstairs.
“I don’t know why Micaela is so nice to me.”
The words slip out before I can prevent them. It’s the first thing that came to mind, and well, there it is.
Prue assesses me with narrow eyes. “You mean when she has a crush on your ex? Does she know you dated?”
“We didn’t date, but yes.” I run a hand through my auburn curls, tugging at the strands. “Things are so awkward, but she wants to be friends. I don’t understand. I would’ve expected her to be more antagonistic toward me under the circumstances.”
“You’re not the one sleeping with him.”
I shake my head. “Even if I were, she would…handle it with poise. I was so jealous last year, and he wasn’t sleeping with anyone. I don’t know how she does it.”
“Don’t be hard on yourself, Billie. You’re doing great now.”
“At moving on and not being jealous?” I scoff. “I’ve slept with one person and gone on zero dates in the past seven months. I know that shouldn’t be a measurement of how I’m handling things—it’s not like I dated much before him—but I’m not doing great.”
She blinks forcefully. “Well, you’re doing better than me. I’ve gone on a million dates, and I’m not any closer to a relationship.”
“At least you’re having sex.”
“You slept with Matheo over the summer.”
My eyes flutter shut. “That was a whim, Prue. Which is why it hasn’t been repeated.”
“Whim or not, you slept with a sexy French guy in Paris. I didn’t get laid in Paris.”
I can’t help laughing. Prue has a tendency to idealize the encounter because she didn’t experience it.
In reality, it was a one-night stand with a guy who spoke broken English. Let’s be real, my French is shit compared to a native speaker. We couldn’t communicate. He was cute, but the sex was mediocre at best.
“I’m not saying it bothers me. It’s awkward, and I don’t think Micaela realizes how awkward it is.”
Prue bridges the distance to pat my thigh. “It’s okay to not be over your ex. You don’t have to be okay with him sleeping with someone else or with Micaela having a crush on him.”
I lean against the headboard and sift through my notes over Jean Pucelle’s Hours of Jeanne d’Evreux. “What we had was great while it lasted, but it was never going to last. We’re too incompatible. Really, Prue, I’m not hung up on Xander.”
I flip to the next page, and she doesn’t say a word.
A beat passes.
Then another.
“Billie, you still have his shirt. His favorite shirt.”
“We need to get back to work…”
