Page 16 of From Now On

“Because it’s a communal space. Because I can’t use the bathroom if you’re?—”

“Relax, Morgan,” Aidan interrupts. “We’ll keep it in the bedroom at the rental. I don’t want to make Eve uncomfortable.”

“So thoughtful of you to do that forher,” I say, rolling my eyes.

I’m acting normal—I think. But there’s a clench in my chest, hearing Aidan toss Eve’s name out so casually. I’m not used to it. I’m used to her name being a thought in my head, not a word spoken aloud.

We reach Conor’s SUV. It’s the only car in the entire lot. Aside from Coach and the facilities staff, Conor is the only one with a key to the rink. And not many people are lining up to exercise first thing on a Saturday, so the rest of the athletic center is empty as well.

As soon as we’re in the car, Aidan starts blasting a new band he found and has been listening to at full volume most mornings. He’s a terrible singer—totally off-key—but his enthusiasm makes it sound better, somehow.

“Come on, Morgan,” he shouts, catching my gaze in the rearview. “I know you know the words.”

I do. Not by choice.

Aidan and I rock-paper-scissored for the front seat. I lost, so my legs are crammed against a bunch of extra hockey equipment. I assume Conor is planning to clear his car out before driving to California. If not, Aidan and Rylan are in for alongtrip. Actually, they’re in for a long trip regardless.

Aidan is the only one with money to spend on expensive plane tickets, which is why we chose a spring break destination we could drive to. Calaveras is nine hours from Somerville. A doable day drive, considering I’ve gone all the way home to Wyoming—seventeen hours—in a straight shot before. I was fine with driving alone rather than cramming in Conor’s crowded back seat. Now that Eve is joining me, I’m more unsure about the arrangement. I’m not dreading it. I’m…nervous about it, I guess.

Nine hours is a long time to be trapped in the car with someone you barely know. Phillips would fill that time with endless chatter about who the hell knows what, but I’ve never had that talent of spouting random shit to fill silence. I’m not shy, more deliberate. I don’t say stuff just to talk, I say what needs to be said.

That could translate to an awkward road trip.

“Morgan! Come on.”

Hart is grinning as Phillips bugs me again.

“Why doesn’t Conor have to sing?” I whine.

“I’m driving, man,” he yells. “Requires full concentration.”

I can barely hear him over the music. There’s a chance Aidan is going to blow out Hart’s speakers. We’re waking up every single squirrel on campus.

Reluctantly, I start singing.

CHAPTER FIVE

EVE

Pop music blares through my headphones as I dab my paintbrush against the canvas. My breathing is even, my heart rate steady.

The last class in this building ended a couple of hours ago. I’m alone, inhaling the distinctive scents of an art studio—wood and ash and Turpenoid and linseed oil and clay and chalk.

Long before anyone suggested I had any talent, art was my happy place. Studying it. Interpreting it.Creatingit.

It’s my outlet for everything I bury inside, either by necessity or by choice. When there’s a pencil or paintbrush in my hand, it feels safe to let it out.

Art is subjective. Up to interpretation. It’s a secret code to my most private thoughts.

Like the painting I’m working on now. It was an assignment for my Advanced Painting class. At first glance, it’s a happy portrait of a little girl and her father. No stranger would immediately know that it was inspired by last year’s Christmas card from my father. The card is sitting in one of the drawers of my desk—the spot where I shoved it after I opened it.

I flipped the perspective, so all you can see of my dad’s face is his profile. Mostly a wide, proud smile crinkling his cheek. And I replaced his four-year-old son with a younger version of myself, even including the tulip-patterned dress I wore to preschool until the pink cotton was threadbare.

Rather than the large backyard of the cul-de-sac my dad resides in now, I changed the background to the apartment I lived in until I was twelve and my mom met her current boyfriend, John. A building my dad never visited.

The little girl is beaming. The exact expression I would have worn had he ever shown up.

I dunk my brush to switch colors.

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