CHAPTER 6

MYR A

Revisiting old wounds

TUESDAY WAS THE first of the month, when I usually got my stipend from the small trust account my father had left me. I liked to treat myself on those days, which for me usually meant a new book or journal, so after grabbing dinner alone at the college cafeteria, I headed off campus to my favorite of the two bookstores nearby.

This time of day most people were home eating dinner with their families, so I was the only customer in the store. I wandered up and down the aisles looking for something new to grab my attention, finally settling on two books, one the latest by my favorite contemporary author and another a ghost story that looked promising. I then headed over to the stationary section to look at the journals. I needed a new one for the stories and poetry I wrote, preferably something with a gothic feel. There were several with roses and crows featured, and having found two I really liked, decided to splurge and get them both. I also bought a new pen and a packet of paper for my notebook.

The sun had set when I left the store and since it was a nice evening for a stroll, I decided to walk to the bakery down the block to pick up a pastry for dessert. I was standing on the corner waiting for the light to change when I got that same feeling of being watched I'd experienced in the quad the evening before. I looked around, at first seeing nothing to explain my uneasiness, then I spotted him outside a small café across the street.

The man in my drawing.

The man who had barely left my thoughts since that first encounter Friday night.

Once again he was dressed in a dark suit that set off his lustrous golden brown hair and pale complexion, and once again his intense gaze was focused right on me. I was tempted to turn around to see if there was someone behind me he could be interested in, but I couldn't tear my eyes away from his. It was as though an electrical current passed between us, a sensation that sent tingles rippling across my flesh. I felt a warmth spread throughout my abdomen and down below, to that private place I had never allowed anyone to touch, and without conscious thought I squeezed my thighs together, amplifying the sensation before biting my lip to keep from gasping aloud. How could just the sight of someone affect me like this?

The light changed and the few people waiting pushed past me to cross the street, but I couldn't get my feet to move. I could barely remember how to breathe. Finally, it was the man who broke contact, turning and walking the other way down the street. I inhaled and clenched my fist around the bag from the bookstore, wanting something real to hang onto.

"Are you all right?"

I startled, realizing someone was speaking to me. I turned my head to see an old lady standing beside me. "Yes, I…thought I saw someone I knew," I replied lamely.

The lady patted my arm "Happens to me all the time, dear. After a while, everyone starts to look familiar."

I smiled and thanked her for her concern, but I didn't cross the street. I suddenly wasn't in the mood for pastry, and instead headed back toward campus, trying to shake the encounter from my mind.

? ? ?

Kristin was in our room when I got back, sprawled on her stomach on her bed with books and papers spread around her.

"Where did you go?" she asked absently as she leafed through what looked like her history textbook.

I dropped the bag from the bookstore on my bed and pulled out my purchases, determined to push what had just happened on the street from my thoughts. "Shopping," I said.

Kristin looked up and frowned. "You're the only person I know who can use that word to mean more books. You take all the fun out of it."

"What would you rather I shop for?" I asked, arranging the new books on the narrow bookshelf next to my desk.

"Clothes, shoes, the usual."

"I have all the clothes and shoes I need, thank you." I opened my laptop and pulled out my notebook, intent on finishing my theme paper .

Kristin made a face of disapproval. "One of these days I'm going to take you shopping for real. No girl has enough clothes and shoes."

"What are you working on?" I asked, changing the subject. I wasn't in the mood for one of Kristin's lectures, regardless of how well-meaning she might be.

"Studying for a test on the Crusades, if you can believe it. What possible use could there be in learning about a bunch of fanatics waging war on another bunch of fanatics? I'm so over Constantinople."

"They had a nice library there."

Kristin rolled her eyes. "Only you would care about that."

I grinned and sat down at my desk, trying to push everything but nineteenth century literature out of my mind, but when I leafed through my notebook for my notes, I once again came face-to-face with him, staring at me from the page.

"Nope. Not tonight," I murmured, turning the page.

"Talking to yourself over there?" Kristin asked, going back to her own studying.

"Just trying to get this theme paper done."

"I thought you had finished that."

"I still have to type up my last notes."

It was quiet in the room for several minutes, enough time for me to get my head into the task at hand, before Kristin piped up. "Ron asked about you tonight."

It took me a minute to process what she had said. "Ron?"

"Ron Beechman. He's in your lit class."

I knew exactly who she meant. "Why would he ask about me?"

"Apparently he was taken with your artistic ability."

"Oh." I shrugged. "He caught me doodling. "

Kristin snorted. "Some doodle. Girl, you got talent. Why aren't you taking art classes?"

"I did in high school." Your daughter has a natural ability. I think she would be a good candidate for a scholarship. I'd be happy to recommend her.

I was a sophomore when the art teacher, Ms. Appleton, had pulled my father aside at the high school's annual open house, raving about what a gifted artist I was. He had always been impressed with my work and wanted to take Ms. Appleton up on her offer. That was before Poe's death.

Poe was my one and only boyfriend; the first person I had ever opened myself up to. His real name was Allen–Allen Ravencourt–but everyone called him Poe. He was a poet, a musician, a lost soul. We bonded over books and music and art, and often fantasized about how we would move to the city after high school and live off our love for each other and our innate talents, but the world was too much for Poe.

I had tried to save him, to keep him engaged in life, but in the end, even I couldn't stave off his darkness. He slit his wrists in the bathtub one night, devastating me. After that, I lost interest in everything creative, especially my art. At least, until my father passed away last year. Maybe it was just the shock to my system I needed. For the first time in three years, I started writing again and finally put pencil to paper to draw, but any ambition I held where my art was concerned died with Poe.

"Why not now?" Kristin asked, yanking me from my memories.

"I need to work on this paper," I replied, closing the subject. I had no desire to revisit that pain right now.