see you at the end

Dylan

The blueish glow of my phone makes me squint a little in the almost pitch darkness of the living room.

The time is 1:18 am.

I’ve been sitting here, in the dark, for about two hours now. Brynn is asleep. She was in bed when I got home. I think she was still angry from our argument earlier, because she didn’t leave any lights on. So, I just sat down on the couch in the dark.

And kept sitting.

And kept thinking.

There was a moment there in the garage where I envisioned myself setting down that mug of coffee and pressing Leander up against the wall.

I keep thinking about that. Replaying that one single action over and over. What would I have done after that? That’s where I pause the replay. I pause it right there so I can type one word into the browser on my phone.

Bisexual.

A list of varied definitions come up. I scroll through them, reading the first sentence under each result, too nervous to tap the link. It’s not that I didn’t know what that word meant. It’s just that I never thought about it, because I never thought it might apply to me.

A light comes on overhead and I squint at Brynn, her arms folded, her coppery hair a mess, yawning. “What are you doing out here?”

I close the browser. I shrug. “Just messing around on my phone.”

She yawns again. “When did you get home?”

“I don’t know. A couple hours ago.”

She sits on the sofa, rubbing her head. “Are you coming to bed?”

“In a minute.”

She sighs. “I guess you’re still mad.”

I’d forgotten about our argument earlier while I was playing piano. And talking to Leander. It started over leaving a cup in the sink and then it escalated. We were both saying things that I’m pretty sure we’d both been holding back for a while. I know now that Brynn is angry with me for “abandoning” her with her friends at the art gallery. She also knows now that I didn’t particularly want to take a job teaching community college classes, and what that implied hung between us unsaid. There was no resolution. It’s still between us even now.

“I’m tired,” I respond. “It was a long night.”

She tilts her head. “Was it?”

I look at my phone again.

I’d forgotten I’d put it on silent. There’s a text. It’s from Leander.

Thanks for playing tonight. Hope it wasn’t weird or weird I’m texting you. See you Monday!

“I would appreciate it,” Brynn says, “if you wouldn’t look at your phone while we’re having a discussion.”

“We weren’t discussing anything. And don’t talk to me like I’m a child.”

Brynn stands up. “Sleep in the guest room tonight.”

“Fine.”

She goes down the hall, into the bedroom, and shuts the door.

I text Leander back. It was great. Thank you for the opportunity. It’s not weird. See you Monday.

***

A new, open line of communication with Leander hangs over me the rest of the weekend like a live electric wire.

He doesn’t send anything else. I don’t send anything else. I keep picking up my phone, trying to think of a legitimate reason to send him a message, but I can’t think of one. There’s nothing class-related to discuss with him, and if I did have something I would send it through email. And when I try to think of something not class related—his art, a US Senator’s home, anything at that dinner party—it feels as inappropriate as showing up at his door unannounced.

We’re not friends.

My stomach clenches as if my body is warning me as I pick my phone up one more time, then set it back down. We’re not friends.

We’re not anything except he’s my student, and I’m his teacher. This whole thing wouldn’t be so weird if we hadn’t met first at that art gallery. Would I have even noticed him in class at all?

Maybe.

Maybe in the way that anyone would notice an attractive person.

But that’s not all he is. I want to talk to him mostly. I want to talk to him the way we talked at that art gallery.

And if he stood too close to me, I don’t think I’d mind.

Brynn halfway ignores me the rest of the weekend. She goes out for a few hours on Sunday afternoon. She spends the rest of the evening on the sofa, with a blanket over her, on her phone in front of the TV. I take my laptop into the guest room and get caught up on emails. Every so often I hear her giggling. I’m not sure if it’s at the TV or if she’s just doing that to get my attention. But I wind up showering in the guest bathroom and sleeping in the guest bedroom again.

On Monday, I’m nervous. Not in a scary way. An anticipatory kind of nervous. When I walk into class I see Leander’s in his dead-center spot, and he’s wearing a slate gray suit with a silky forest-green tie. Somehow the color combination brings out the gold flecks in his eyes. It’s unusual to see him dressed like that, of course. He’s been so sophisticatedly casual, even at the donor party, that I’m not sure what to think. I’m not sure how I’m not going to be able to look at him during the lecture.

I expect him to stay after class, but he doesn’t. He scoots out the door almost as soon as I dismiss everyone. I feel a pang of disappointment as I go into my office, set up my laptop, and go through the emails that seem to be piling up day by day.

I’m only a couple of minutes into the weeds, when my phone chimes with a text. I expect Brynn, but it’s Leander, and I smile.

Sorry. I had a meeting to get to.

I text back. It’s okay. You don’t have to stay after class every time. It’s usually for the bad students, and you’re not a bad student.

Almost a minute goes by before he responds. That’s good. It’s good I’m not a bad student, I mean. I just feel like since I normally stay after, I should explain why I didn’t today.

I reply, It’s fine, you don’t need to explain anything. Hope your meeting went well.

He doesn’t send anything else, so I get back to all the emails. As the afternoon progresses, I start to feel a creeping sense of dread. I don’t want to go home.

Brynn was gone when I woke up this morning. She’s usually in the middle of her routine by the time I need to wake up. I sent her a text and she sent me a short response about going into work early. That was that.

We’ve argued before, but this time it feels different. It feels like if I go home, we’re just going to argue some more. We’ll say more things we’ve been holding back. Or maybe she will. I’m not even really that angry. I honestly don’t even know how I feel.

I decide to start on some grading and planning. I step out to grab a bite to eat on campus. I go back to my office. I work some more. At some point, it registers with me that it’s dark outside. The only light on in my office is the laptop screen. I can tell from the soft echoes down the hallway that night classes have started.

I check the time and see it’s almost seven. Brynn is probably home by now, but there are no where are you? texts on my phone. I keep working. More time goes by. Sometime after eight, when I’ve decided that I should go home and face whatever argument Brynn and I will have, I stand up from the desk and glance out the window.

I see someone walking by Connor Hall. In the walkway lighting I recognize the slate gray suit and the forest green tie that’s been pulled loose. There’s another guy walking with Leander, only just a little bit slower so he’s close behind him. He looks older, but it’s hard to tell because he’s got a baseball cap on and the walkway lighting doesn’t really show his face. I partly wonder if it’s Leander’s brother.

And I wonder what he’s still doing on campus so late? Leander looks as if he’s in a hurry. I don’t think I’ll catch him as I’m leaving my office and going to my car. As I’m packing up and locking the office door, I shoot him a text.

I just saw you walk by Connor. Didn’t realize you’d be on campus so late. Is that your brother with you?

A couple of minutes pass and my phone vibrates. What do you mean? No one is with me.

***

Leander

When I see Mr. Atkins’s text, I spin around and look all around me.

I’m literally the only person on the walkway. My heart is pounding. I text him back. What did they look like?

The hairs on the back of my neck are starting to stand up. The walkway is pretty well lit at night, but there are still plenty of shadowy spots behind shrubs and little alcoves in the buildings. Connor Hall is right behind me. I turn and begin walking toward it.

I text Mr. Atkins again. Are you still in your office?

Just then another text comes through but it’s from a random number. Yo, are you home?

Lionel.

I reply to him. Were you just following me?

I’ve got my head down, busy texting, when I nearly run into someone. I jump back and almost drop my phone before I recognize Mr. Atkins.

“Oh, it’s you,” I say breathing a sigh of relief.

“Are you okay?” he asks, concerned, and looking around. “I could’ve sworn I saw someone behind you.”

“How far behind me?”

“Right behind you.” Mr. Atkins points down the walkway. “Right down there. I thought they were walking with you.”

“What did they look like?”

“They were wearing a cap,” Mr. Atkins says. “And dark jeans and a sweatshirt. About your height. I thought it was your brother.”

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Why would Lionel be coming up to campus to bother me now? And his notes are getting weirder. I’m starting to worry about all the drugs he’s doing now. Is he smoking crack? Snorting coke? What kind of pills are Desi and Nell giving him? And why isn’t the fucker answering my text?

I look at Mr. Atkins curiously. “How did you know about my brother?”

I’m not completely sure, but in the walkway lighting it looks like his face is getting red. I try to think if my parents left out any pictures of Lionel and me where Mr. Atkins could have seen, but I don’t think so.

“I googled your dad.” He pauses there his expression changing to one of sympathy. “Then I saw mentioning of your brother. Lionel, right?”

I don’t want sympathy from him. That’s the last thing that I want. “Yeah. Um, listen. Thanks for being here with me, but I need to go find him, actually.”

Mr. Atkins looks confused. “Okay.”

“See you in class on Wednesday?”

“Sure. Can I give you a ride or something?”

“No, but thank you. See ya later.”

“Bye.”

And with that I turn to go to the bus station and find my brother.

***

I should know better than to pound so loudly on the door to the duplex.

Desi and Nell might think I’m the cops and who knows what they’ll do. Or what they’re on. I wait and nobody answers, so I knock one more time, softer.

The door cracks open. I can’t tell who’s peeking out. “Is Lionel here?”

The door opens all the way to reveal him standing there, shirtless with all kinds of scabs on his chest. His eyes are sleepy as if he’s just woken up.

I get right to the point. “Have you been following me?”

“What?” he says with a scratchy voice.

“You heard me. Are you or some of your druggie friends following me?”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Somebody was following me on campus earlier. Tonight. Who was it?”

Lionel scratches his neck. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Listen. You got any cash?”

“Fuck you.” I pound my fist in the door and that makes him jump. “You’ve got to stop this shit. All the stalking and stupid notes. Just leave me the fuck alone!”

Lionel’s expression changes. His eyes gain some clarity. “Notes?”

“Yes, those fucking notes you keep leaving on the door to my studio.”

He looks confused. “I’m not leaving you any notes.”

“Yes, you are!”

“No, I’m not!”

“You’re too cracked out to know what you’re doing!” I yell it. It echoes in the alleyway in front of the duplex. Something skitters away under the trash.

Lionel’s eyes narrow and his voice takes on a growling tone. “I’m not doing crack.”

“Whatever it is, quit messing with me.”

He steps out of the doorway toward me. His shoulders square, intimidating. He’s pissed.

I recall that time, when I was like twelve, when we were wrestling in the backyard. We were just horsing around. I don’t even know who started it. Lionel put me in a choke hold. He was bigger than me, stronger. The frame of my vision became cloudy and dark. I kept wriggling and kicking him to get him to loosen up, but he couldn’t see my face. I passed out.

Next thing I knew, Lionel was over top of me, slapping my face and shaking me. He was crying and freaking out. He thought he killed me. He was so sorry and felt so bad for days. The same look he had in his eyes I can see a shadow of in his eyes right now. It’s guilt.

“Stop making up shit about me,” he says, getting in my face. “And give me some fucking money.”

But not enough guilt.

I bet if he tried to put me in a choke hold now, I could easily get out of it. He doesn’t look so tough anymore. He just looks pathetic.

I shake my head. I’ve had enough of this. He’s an addict, and he’ll never change.

“You ever contact me again,” I say calmly. “I swear to God, I’ll call the cops.”

With that, I spin around and leave my junkie brother standing there, stunned into silence.

***

Do I believe Lionel?

I think about that on the Metro. Do I believe he’s not the one that’s been leaving the notes? He genuinely seemed confused, but I have this feeling he’s confused all the time now. And there’s no way he could have been the person Mr. Atkins saw and returned to that duplex before I got there.

So, if it’s not Lionel doing all this shit…who is it?

I get off the Metro and order an Uber that shows up relatively quickly. I take it all the way to Alex’s house. I check the time on my phone and it’s after ten. There’s lights on in the windows, and I only consider that Alex might have someone over after I’ve knocked.

When Alex answers, he’s holding a glass of wine. His eyes widen with genuine surprise. Then he grins as he looks me up and down. “Well. This is interesting.”

I look past him into the living room where a doe-eyed guy with spiky hair is leaning his head back on the couch to look at me. He looks about my age. Of course.

I don’t waste any time. “Have you been following me and leaving notes at my studio?”

Alex’s sly grin morphs into a frown. “What?”

“If you’re not doing it, are you paying someone?”

Earlier today I had a meeting with my dad and the White House intern person. I didn’t pay one bit of fucking attention to anything she said, I just nodded and smiled, and let dad do all the talking for me. I don’t intend on taking the position and I have never, ever wanted a career in politics. That path was for Lionel. But that doesn’t mean I’m free from politics and all the things that come with it; including, but not limited to: spying.

Alex leans on the door frame. He looks amused. The doe-eyed dude behind him looks annoyed.

“Why would I need to pay someone to follow you,” Alex says, “when I know you’ll just show up at my door?”

I glare at him. “Just say yes or no: are you spying on me?”

Alex’s amusement flattens into concern. “Hold on a second.” He shuts the door right before I see Doe Eyes coming over to us with a frown.

I check my phone really quick. I’m half-afraid I’ll see something from Lionel, but the text across the screen isn’t from him. It’s from Mr. Atkins.

Everything alright? Did you find your brother?

I’m still too freaked out by the events of this evening to really and truly appreciate that he’s checking up on me. But it gives me a little bit of relief. I send a response.

I’m okay. It wasn’t my brother following me.

The door opens and Doe Eyes walks out. “You’d better be worth it, babe.” He scowls at me and continues to a waiting taxi I hadn’t noticed had pulled up.

Alex gestures for me to come in.

“Who’s son was that?” I ask, letting my bookbag slip off my shoulders and onto the floor.

Alex sits on the sofa and invites me to sit next to him. There are the prerequisite items of a romantic evening—leading to some fucking, no doubt— all over the coffee table: wine, fruit, and cherry-flavored lube.

“Did you take this new boy toy to the opera?” I ask, having a seat.

Alex finishes off one of the glasses of wine. “I’ve taken him many places.” He narrows his eyes at me. “Now. Tell me. What’s all this about being followed? And the notes?”

I give him an abbreviated explanation. I don’t mention Mr. Atkins in all this. I’m not sure why. But Alex listens, creases deepening between his eyes as I speak.

When I’m done he stares at me for a second or two. “Do you think someone has seen you? With me?” He pauses and says with a slight grimace. “Or maybe another man?”

“Maybe. But why the fuck does that matter? Men go out together all the time. And it’s not like we fucked in the middle of the street.”

“Maybe we weren’t careful enough, though.” Alex rubs his beard.

“Even if we weren’t, you’d know, right? Webber would’ve found out.”

He looks across the room at the screen saver on the TV. “You’re Senator Craig Garrison’s son, though. He has his critics. In and out of the Senate.”

“So? I’m not my dad.”

He looks at me. “You remember that judge last year? Don Harrison? He gave a man who committed sexual assault a lighter sentence. Harrison’s family members started getting threatening messages. Cars following them. Sometimes people target the target by going after side-targets, if you know what I mean.”

My dad has indeed pissed off a lot of people. I guess I sort of thought the trouble with Lionel was enough to make those pissed off people satisfied. I always thought people only noticed what Lionel was doing, but any amateur investigator could find out stuff about me. Anyone could hire a private investigator to follow me around. Leave me weird notes to scare me.

But what would be the fucking point?

I don’t care if other people know I’m gay. If my parents found out, it wouldn’t change me.

It would just look bad for my dad.

And to his voters.

“You think,” I say, “it’s like my dad’s opponents or something? Maybe getting information to blackmail him?”

I’ve always thought that a drug addict son plus a gay son would equal the demise of dad’s political career. Or it would if he handled it the wrong way. So far, he seems to be handling Lionel in a way that’s acceptable to his voters. I know full well there are people who want him out of office. There were people that ran against him in the last election. Dad keeps winning, but just barely.

Would anyone seriously go this far?

“I think,” Alex says, “you should take those notes to the police and report the other stuff too.” He pauses. “Have you told your father about any of this?”

“No. I thought it was Lionel.”

Alex takes the other half-drank glass of wine and finishes it. “Senator Garrison has security detail these days, doesn’t he? Maybe you should too.”

My stomach feels sour. “I don’t want security guys with me. It’ll just attract attention.” And I can’t imagine going into Mr. Atkins’s class with some huge security dude with an ear piece sitting next to me. “So, it’s not you, then? Doing all this?”

“No. And you need to take this serious, Leander. There are a lot of people out there who would love to see Senator Garrison knocked down a few pegs.”

I smirk at him. “Not you, of course, right?”

One side of Alex’s mouth curls upward. His hand slides over my thigh. “I’m glad you came to see me.”

I brush his hand away and stand up. “Your new boy toy wasn’t.” I go pick up my bookbag. “What’s his name? He looks like a Brayden.”

Alex smiles at me lazily and follows me to the front door. “Were you jealous?”

I look at my phone. There’s a text from Mr. Atkins: let me know when you get home okay.

“The day I am jealous over you with anyone named Brayden is the day you get to fuck me on my parent’s dining room table.”

“Says the guy named Leander.”

“It means ‘lion man.’ What’s yours mean? Hypocrite man?” I pull up the Uber app. “You need to call boy toy back. Don’t let that cherry lube go to waste.”

Alex approaches me, looking at me with that smart-ass smirk, hands in his pockets. “Or you could help me with that.”

“I don’t think so.” The closest Uber is a half an hour away. I look up some taxi cab numbers.

Alex says, “You’ve met someone then.”

I look up at him.

“You were with him this weekend, weren’t you?” He’s still got that smart-ass smirk, but do I detect a glint of sadness in his chocolate chip eyes?

“I wasn’t with anybody. I told you. My dad was having the donor party and I had to be there.” I turn to go. “It’s none of your business anyway. I’ll see you later.”

“Leander.” He grabs my shoulder and I turn to him. The smirk is gone and he’s serious. “Be careful.”

“Sure.”

He grins. “See you soon.”

I roll my eyes and walk out the door.

***

I don’t go to the studio.

I have the cab drop me off in front of the historic brick colonial. It’s close to midnight, but there’s lights on. I have to punch in the security code to get in. For a second, I’m afraid that I’ve forgotten it. My parents changed it after Lionel’s last arrest. But I get inside and find my mother in the kitchen on her laptop.

She doesn’t seem all that surprised to see me. She glances at me for a sec before looking back at her laptop. “It’s awfully late, isn’t it?”

“I could say the same to you.” I grab a soda from the fridge and go up to my old room.

I lay down on the bed and try to think, but there’s been too much going on this evening. And I don’t want to see if I’ve gotten anymore notes.

Who all knows for sure about me sleeping in that studio? My parents. Alex. Lionel. That’s really it. I’m not even 100% sure about Lionel. The only way he’d know is if I told him.

Or he was lying and he actually has followed me.

Or gotten someone else to.

Would Desi or Nell do it?

I cover my eyes with my hands. I’m suddenly so tired. I can’t think anymore. I look at my phone and remember Mr. Atkins wanted me to text him.

I let him know that I got home okay, then I hop into the shower. After that, I see his response.

Good. Let me know if you need anything.

It’s super late right now. He wasn’t asleep. I wonder if he was up waiting on my response.

The thought makes me smile.

***

In the morning, I wake up too late.

By the time I get downstairs, the coffee is old and Florence is out doing the shopping. I have a lot of studying I should be doing, especially since it takes me so long, but after making a fresh pot of coffee, I wander out into the garage.

I take a look at all my old paintings again. I really must have been kind of drunk the other night to have let Mr. Atkins see these. They’re pretty bad. At least to my standards they are. That’s why I didn’t finish a lot of them. They’d started to frustrate me. But I find one of the ones Mr. Atkins kept looking at.

Maybe it has some potential.

I set it on the easel and go looking for my old paints and brushes. I start with a stroke here and another stroke there. By the time Florence comes into the garage, I’ve finished the coffee and my stomach is growling. I’ve gotten into the zone and I can’t stop.

“Leander,” she says, picking up the coffee mug. “Are you staying here again?”

“Maybe.” I put down the paintbrush and stretch.

“Your mother’s gone on a photo shoot. Did you hear? They are bringing together all the former Miss Virginias.”

“That’s cool.”

“Do you want some lunch?”

“I’ll get something in a minute.” I follow her inside the house. “Thanks, though.”

When I walk past the living room, my dad’s in there with one of his aides. It surprises me.

It’s not terribly far from his office in DC to Alexandria, but he’s got a bed set up in it. He usually spends his days in DC and his nights. Even when Congress is in recess, he’ll sleep in his office rather than come home. He’s got way too many idiots to pal around with. Plus, he hates driving at night and dodging the homeless people in the Metro stations.

I linger in the doorway until he sees me.

“Branfield wants you to start next week,” he says, staring at me over the lenses of his readers. “They need help with the tours.”

I never said I would intern anywhere, and how nice of him to volunteer me without asking me my schedule first. I decide to skip all that for now, though, because there’s something else I want to talk to him about.

“Do you have security people?” I ask him. “When you’re in DC?”

Dad blinks at me. “Security people?”

“Like guards and stuff?”

He looks down at the legal pad he was writing on. “Only at special events, maybe. But there’s usually security at those things anyway. Why?”

“I think somebody’s…stalking me.”

Dad looks up.

“Somebody was following me around on campus last night.” I glance over at the aide. She quietly takes her phone and goes into the dining room. I go sit in the living room across from dad. “And I’ve been getting weird notes.”

Dad stares at me. “Notes? What kind of notes? Threats?”

“Yeah, I mean, at first I thought they were from Lionel. They were folded up and stuck in the door of my studio. Because they were so weird and the handwriting was so shaky, I just assumed it was him. But it’s not.”

The mentioning of Lionel changes his expression. He takes off his glasses. “You mean you thought Lionel was threatening you and you didn’t think to tell me?”

“Dad—”

“I’m so sick of this. Every time we turn around—”

“Dad.”

“—he belongs in jail! I’m telling you, Leander—”

“Dad.”

“—your brother is a lost cause. You hear me? Don’t you dare let him drag you—”

“Dad! It wasn’t him! Will you stop?” Out of the corner of my eye I see the aide put her earbuds in. “For fuck sakes, will you listen to me?”

“Don’t you swear in this goddamn house!”

“It’s not Lionel. Or at least it’s not Lionel following me, and he said he wasn’t sending me notes. I don’t know what to think, honestly, but someone’s been doing this stuff. And I don’t know what to do.”

“Lionel said he wasn’t sending you notes? You asked him? You spoke to him?”

I roll my eyes. “Yes. Last night.”

“You know where he is?” Dad sets down his legal pad and stands up. “Where? Tell me.”

“It’s none of your business and it doesn’t matter. You said he’s a lost cause remember?”

“It is too my business. Your brother squandered his inheritance by snorting it up his nose and skipped out on rehab. That was part of the deal. He finishes or he goes to jail.”

I stand up. “Somebody’s fucking stalking me, and you just want to know where Lionel is? Seriously?”

“Watch your language, Leander. Where is he?”

This was a bad idea. I should’ve just called the cops like Alex said and never mentioned this to my dad. I should’ve known this would turn into another Lionel rant.

I walk out of the living room.

Dad yells after me. “Leander!”

I go up to my room. I change my clothes, get my books and shit packed up, and go back downstairs. I go right for the front door.

“Where are you going?” Dad says.

“None of your fucking business.”

“Are you going to see your brother?” Dad follows me. “Tell me where he is, Leander!”

“Fuck you.” I leave.

***

I don’t really know where to go, so I go up to PCC campus.

I do a casual, unnecessary walk by Mr. Atkins’s office only to see the door is closed. I thought I remembered the syllabus saying he had a class or office hours on Tuesdays, but maybe it didn’t.

I go to the dining hall first and grab a bite to eat. I check my phone. I have two texts and none of them are from Lionel. I’m a little surprised. He’s usually more persistent. I start to feel a small pang of guilt. Would I really call the cops on him? I don’t know. I’m not sure what I would do anymore.

He’s the bane of my existence, but I feel sorry for him just the same.

Both texts are from Mr. Atkins.

One says, everything okay today?

The next one, sent about 3 minutes later, says, I was worried about you.

My smile is wide. Suddenly everything feels better. I start to type out a response to his first question, something vague obviously, because I don’t want to particularly get into much detail about the confrontation with Lionel, cock-blocking Alex, and my asshole dad arguing with me.

But I look at his last message again and delete it all.

You were?

A couple seconds later he sends, of course.

A flutter unleashes in my stomach. I thought you had office hours on Tuesdays.

It’s about a minute before he responds with, I do. In the morning before Music Theory I at 9:30.

Ah, too late, I guess.

I get up from the table in the dining hall and start making my way to the library. I have this thought to walk by Connor Hall where I was walking last night and look around. For what, I don’t even know. Clues like some kind of detective?

I linger on the sidewalk. I check my phone again.

Mr. Atkins has sent another message. I was thinking of doing some work in my office this evening.

I stare at the text. My pits start to feel a bit sweaty. What time this evening?

I hold my breath and exhale when his reply comes through. I was thinking around seven.

I check the time and see it’s a little after four. Okay, maybe I’ll see you.

A couple minutes pass before he replies. I hope so.

The flutter is strong. I’m smiling ear to ear. But then I frown. It doesn’t really mean anything, right? It can’t. And besides, I’ve got enough drama going on. But I’m definitely going to stop by his office. Absolutely I will.

I need to kill some time, so I go to the library, get out my books and laptop, and try to get to work. It’s hard, though. The argument with my dad keeps replaying and now I have this eerie feeling I’m being watched. I look around me and see nothing but other students hunched over their own books and laptops.

My art studio was my space away from my family and all the drama. My space where I could be creative. It doesn’t feel that way anymore. And now I have a problem — do I go home to my parent’s and deal with dad or go back to the studio and deal with the creepy notes?

The whole situation from yesterday and today weighs on me. I flip through the pages of a book and try to answer discussion questions in the class forum, but the words look more jumbled up than usual. There’s too much going on and I’m tired.

PCC’s library is too small for a coffee shop or anything. And I don’t want to walk all the way back to the dining hall. So I fold my arms on the table and put my head down to rest for a few minutes.

***

Dylan

I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m not so sure about this idea that I had. Brynn had to work late, and when Leander texted me, I just thought of it.

It probably wasn’t a good idea, considering it’s now almost 7:30 and Leander hasn’t shown up.

He said maybe he’ll see me. I can’t expect anything. And it’s fine if he doesn’t come by. It is. I have actual work to do that I’d rather not do in my home alone.

And should Leander be walking around on campus at night alone after last night?

It was frightening, and I’ve been worried. More worried than I should be. Curious too, so I looked up his brother again. I can’t say from the photos online if the guy following Leander was him. It must be difficult for the Senator to have a son getting in so much trouble with the law and everything. And it must be especially difficult for Leander.

More time goes by and it’s now after 8:00. Should I text him? I was only telling him I’d be in my office. I never asked him to meet me or anything. But I did say I hoped he’d stop by. That was too much, wasn’t it? Too far. That’s why he didn’t reply then. This was a bad idea. This was —

There’s a light knock on the open door. I look up to see Leander standing there. The way my stomach does a little flip when I see him makes me involuntarily clear my throat as if Leander can hear it.

“Hey there,” I say.

“Hey,” he says. He looks a little tired. He yawns.

“Come on in.”

He does. He sits down in one of the chairs. “Sorry. I was in the library, and I accidentally fell asleep.”

“It’s all right. You must’ve been tired.”

He nods, yawning again. “It’s been a weird twenty-four hours.”

“Did you find out who that was last night?”

“No,” he says with a sigh, his shoulders slumping.

“I don’t mean to be bringing that up to drag you down or anything. I was just worried. That’s all.”

He half-smiles at me and says softly. “I appreciate you being worried.”

He’s got another gold chain around his neck. I see it peeking out under the collar of his sweatshirt. Does he wear the same one, I wonder? Or does he have different ones? I have this sudden desire to see the rest of it. Pull down the collar of his sweatshirt, so I can take a look.

Fuck.

“You’re one of my students,” I say evenly. “I wouldn’t want you to get hurt or anything.”

His half-smile fades a little.

I really don’t know what I’m doing. And he’s here right now because I said I’d be here. At 7pm on a random Tuesday evening. There’s no good reason for either of us to be here right now.

And yet here we are.

And we’re alone. There are no night classes in Connor tonight.

Did I know that already?

Leander looks down at his feet. He takes a posture like he’s getting ready to get up. Getting ready to leave.

Before I can stop myself I ask him, “What did the title of your painting mean?”

His brows draw together.

“It was called, um, daylight comes after an insatiable night, right?”

He smiles. He laughs. “Wow. Good memory. And, yeah. I don’t necessarily know if that means anything. It’s just what it looked like when I was done.” He tilts his head slightly and says softly, “what do you think it means?”

I smile. “I don’t know. That’s why I was asking you.”

Leander nods, slowly, looking around my office. “I don’t really think too hard about it when I name my paintings. Sometimes it’s just whatever phrasing pops into my head.” He gets up and takes one of the music books off the shelf. “My question is, how do you read musical notes without going cross-eyed.”

I laugh. “I’ve been doing it for so long, I couldn’t tell you.”

He flips through a book of concertos for piano. “I wouldn’t be able to do it. I have a hard enough time with words.”

“Why’s that?”

He replaces the concerto book. “I’m dyslexic.” He glances over at me, warily. “I have to read stuff really slow. I’d suck as a musician.”

“I’ve taught dyslexic kids piano.” I stand up and join him at the shelf. “I have a book that helps. It uses different colors to help discern the different music notes.” I look through the titles on the shelf, walking through them with my fingers, and become hyper-aware of Leander next to me. He’s wearing that yacht cologne. It’s subtle, but I’d recognize it anywhere.

Suddenly we’re back in that art gallery, where he stood too close to me and asked me a question.

He’s standing too close to me now. I know it. He knows it.

I stare at the bookshelf, watching him look at me in the corner of my eye. I turn to look at him back, feeling my heart racing.

“You never answered me, you know,” he says softly.

“I know,” I say softly back.

He looks back at the bookshelf, running his finger along the spine of another music book. “That light sculpture was supposed to be different every time you looked at it. I’ve looked at that thing probably a dozen times, but I always see the same thing.”

I don’t know what to say. I turn my head and look across the room, but I feel his eyes on me again. I’m afraid to meet his gaze.

But I know now what I would have done after I’d pressed him up against the wall in that garage. The visualization streams into my mind with such vividness, every inch of my skin begins to heat.

“But you saw it, didn’t you?” He says after a minute or so.

I nod.

He’s closer to me now. So close I feel his knuckles brushing against my fingers. “Tell me what you saw.”

I turn to look at him. His face is inches away from mine. His mouth. I swallow. In one instance, I feel like I’m in a trance. It’s like I’ve left one reality and slipped into another one.

But in the next instance the vibrating of my phone on my desk pulls me away.

I blink and step away from Leander. “Sorry.”

I pick up my phone and see it’s just an alert that my battery is low, but Leander is putting his bookbag on his shoulders and moving toward the door.

“Leander,” I say.

He holds up a hand. “It’s okay. I shouldn’t have come.”

“No, I shouldn’t have—”

“I’ll see you in class tomorrow.” And with that he’s out.

I follow him out the door and stop, watch him walk down the darkened hallway, torn whether to go after him or let him go. It feels as if there’s two sides of me fighting, and the thing is, I don’t know what they’re fighting over.

I go back in my office and start packing up my things. I want to catch Leander before he gets to the Metro, give him a ride so he’s not walking alone, and maybe we can talk about this.

Whatever this is.

But I’m interrupted by a noise.

A loud pop. Very loud.

A very loud pop that sounds like a gunshot. Right by Connor Hall.

My blood runs cold.

I turn and run out of my office.