Dust (3 page)

I could feel
it
.

And that scared the shit out of me.

"
I
t's okay
, darlin'..."

I gasped, bolting up in the bed. My skin was crawling. I wouldn't think that was physically possible, but my body obviously knew better. It was that, or creepy crawlies were actually roving around on me.

I'd welcome the bugs over the alternative.

"You okay, Liv?"

I started, jerking my head in the direction of the voice.
Barbie
. Right, I was in my dorm. I took a deep breath and forced my muscles to relax and ignore the fight-or-flight instinct that was ingrained within me. "Oh, um, yeah. Bad dream." It had been an even worse reality, but I wasn't going there with her.

"Ah. I hate it when I have a nightmare. Sometimes, I dream I'm cheering without any clothes on..."

I totally checked out on her then. She was the Charlie Brown teacher in my head as I stood and grabbed my clothes. "I'm gonna hop in the shower before class."

"...I'd wake up—oh, okay. Don't forget about the fundraiser tomorrow. I probably won't see you again until then, and you said you'd try to make it."

Crap. I didn't remember saying that, but it was possible. "I'll see." Yeah, I probably wasn't going. I didn't do social events, no matter how noble the cause, but it was easier to say that than give an outright rejection. If I said no, she'd probably hound me. Too much drama. I had enough of that already.

I walked down the hall to the showers and quickly cleaned and got ready for class. At least Jewel had been M.I.A. most of the time since we became roommates. I hoped she found another cause to support that'd keep her busy and away from the room as much as this hurricane relief thing had been doing. I liked seeking the solitude of my room after classes. Not that my classes had sucked.

Okay, art had sucked, and if that weren't bad enough, I'd made a fool of myself by running out of there the first day. It was too much to hope that they were used to seeing a lunatic run out without taking all her stuff. Good thing I didn't really care what they thought about me. I was used to being fodder for jokes. At least my writing classes had gone well.

But it wasn't a writing class I had this morning.

Art.
Those three little letters would be the bane of my existence. I'd put off taking it for as long as I could. I did have a few extra classes to take since I'd transferred schools, but after mapping out my course load with my advisor on the remaining classes I had to have to graduate, this semester was the only time it'd fit into my schedule. I had to suck it up and do it. It wasn't for me anyway.

It was for
her
.

As I walked to class several minutes earlier than necessary, I acknowledged the campus was laid out fairly well for me. My classes were all close together, and my routes felt short, safe. As the days passed, I started to feel less closed in. If I didn't think about the parishes and towns that lurked beyond where I now lived, I could pretend I wasn't actually in Louisiana. It was insane. I knew that, but it helped.

The door to the art room was propped open to allow a comfortable breeze to filter through. That, or to keep the kids from getting high on paint fumes. I walked in and was going to go right to the teacher to get my stuff—surely she'd have taken it up after I fled—but noticed she wasn't at her desk. I frowned and looked around. A few students where already here, but that was it. No teacher. I glanced to the back of the room and saw the dark hair poking out from behind the canvas. Motor Mouth was here. Great. If anybody was going to ask what happened to me the other day, it would be him. I could take a different seat, but quickly dismissed that idea. First, it was a sign of weakness.

I didn't like to show weakness.

And second, Dr. Sutherland might have assigned seats. Since I wasn't here for the very beginning of class last time, I wasn't sure if she'd said to keep the seat we'd initially picked or not. If I gambled on that and lost, it'd draw unneeded attention to me. No thanks.

But really, I just didn't like to show weakness.

Steeling myself for the oncoming questions, I marched to the back of the room without a second thought as to how I'd do my work if my things were not somewhere in here. When I got to my spot, I didn't even look at Mystery Man. I dropped my bag and sat on the stoolthen gaped at my artwork and textbook displayed just how I'd left them. But that wasn't all. There was a torn piece of paper with a hand drawn on it with notes. The sketching had extra lines and shading for emphasis, which some of the notes pointed to, but otherwise, it was perfect. I looked up again to see if Dr. Sutherland had dropped it off and maybe put her personal effects on her desk before stepping out for a minute, but her desk was too messy to tell. I plucked the drawing she'd rendered as a guide and started reading it. I glared at it after seeing the first note and then looked at my nosey neighbor.

"'Don't puss out.' Really?"

He looked over the protection of his work and winked at me. "Solid advice."

"So did you just draw this up now or did you take my things?"

"I took them." He stood and stretched. Holy crap. He was tall. And big all over. He had to be at least half a foot taller than my five-six. He scooted his stool closer to me, and I stiffened. He sat down and pointed at the sheet. "It looks like you just started drawing without thinking about it first. You should have a game plan in place before you tackle a project, no matter how small it may seem. How many art classes have you taken before?"

If he'd asked with an attitude, I'd have told him to fuck off, but because he was so nonchalant about it, my answer came easily. "None. Not counting art appreciation." That had been a required course for any bachelor of arts major at my previous school, so I'd had to grin and bear that seminar-style instruction early on in my education.

He nodded, seemingly concentrating. "Well, I put some general notes on here to help you. You can apply these to any assignment you do. Don't beat yourself up, though, drawing hands is very difficult. Even seasoned artists have trouble with it."

I just stared into his gray eyes, trying to understand him. The only thing I could think was...
Um, yeah, okay, he's hot
. I might've been dead inside, but outside I was still a woman. Not that I was happy to have those thoughts. It wouldn't change anything except make me mad at myself for feeling an attraction toward a man. I wasn't a lesbian, but I didn't date. Why would I? I didn't have any positive experience with men. Those who I'd been exposed to had done something to hurt me. I'd liked boys once a long time ago. I remembered some of the ones who ran around my old neighborhood, playing football and baseball and riding their bikes and teasing the girls. That was back when life was innocent and carefree. Back when I had a life worth living.

Back before everything had changed.

Now, even if I felt the urge to be near a man, I wouldn't allow it. History had proved they could hurt me, but what if the opposite happened? What if one made me happy? That was unacceptable. I existed. That was it. I would not allow anything more.

"Thank you," I muttered and forced my eyes downcast.

His knee started bouncing, but other than that, he didn't move. "I'm sorry I was rude the other day. I have a hard time keeping my mouth shut."

I looked up at him. He'd folded his arms across his chest and was watching me. "You didn't know."

"I didn't know what?"

"That I don't like to be called that."

He laughed without humor. "I don't think anybody likes to be called an outcast."

I frowned at him. "Huh?"

"You know. When you said that about me, and I practically called you a freak. I wasn't thinking."

"You called me darlin'." I snapped my mouth shut. Why would I say the word? Just thinking it would make my hands sweat sometimes. Saying it could make me start to shake. Now he was looking at me with his head cocked to the side. Great. He'd jumped to the wrong insult, and I'd just corrected him. I should've kept quiet. Calling me a freak would be an insult, but calling me the other word was practically chivalrous around here. It would require explanation, and he wasn't going to be getting one.

"You don't like that word?"

"No."

He licked his bottom lip and nodded slowly. "Okay. Just that word or any hospitable Southern term?"

"Just that one." We continued to stare at each other, and I wondered what he was thinking. But I jumped when he suddenly grabbed his leg. I looked down and saw his hand clamped down on his knee. Then my gaze flew back to his.

"Sorry. Didn't mean to startle you." He let go of his leg and stood. Then he grabbed his stool but stopped there without moving back to his easel. "I have ADHD. The hyperactivity part of it is sometimes hard to hide. Every so often, I feel like I have to move around or talk, which makes some people uncomfortable." He moved back to his artwork, and I was stunned in silence. I'd never met anybody who confessed to having that, though I didn't talk to people much. I guess it wasn't too bad. He wasn't covered in puss-filled sores and contagious or anything, but the look in his eyes when he'd confessed conveyed more of an apology than his words. It tugged at something deep within me. Something I didn't want to acknowledge. Something I
wouldn't
acknowledge. But discovering whatever that was inside me wouldn't be necessary to assuage the pain he'd felt in that moment of admittance.

"I'm deathly allergic to peanuts," I muttered before considering. Maybe knowing he was sitting next to someone who was also defective would make him feel somehow
normal
enough.

His head snapped up, but the shocked look in his eyes didn't stay. He suddenly smiled and shook his head before picking up something from his case and tending to whatever he was working on.

"So, Liv. What's your major?"

Our serious moment thankfully gone, I copied his actions by grabbing a pencil out of my book bag before answering. "Creative writing. You?"

"Art." He chuckled. "God, creative writing? Really? I hate writing. I found out I have a major research paper due this semester, and I'm seriously dreading it. I can't write worth shit."

"It's not hard. I can help you."
The fuck?
Where did that come from? Were we going to be BFFs now or something? Doubtful. I snapped my mouth shut and flipped my sketchpad to a clean piece of paper. I'd use his drawing of a hand to help me—along with the image in the textbook—with a fresh attempt.

"You could've just been being nice when you said that since I gave you a few drawing tips, but I'm supposed to graduate at the end of this semester. If I don't pass that class, I'll have to take it again this summer." He dropped his hand and looked at me. "No way do I want to do that. Especially when I'm so close to finally being finished with school. I'm seriously going to hold you to that offer. Desperate times and all that B.S. But if you want, we can trade tutoring services. I help you with art and you help me with writing. I don't care as long as you help me with the nightmare of crafting that paper."

I wasn't sure what to say. He seemed to switch gears faster than I could follow. "Big plans after graduation?" It was the first thing I could come up with, latching onto his comment about almost being finished with school.

"Actually, I interned for an advertising company last year. After that, they threw a few freelance gigs my way when they were too booked to handle some small jobs internally. Before Christmas they offered me a fulltime job after graduation. Since then, I've been working part-time for them as my schedule allows. With school and taking care of my granddad eating up so much of my time, it's been a pretty sweet arrangement. They're flexible with me."

"Okay," I said slowly and tried to focus on my assignment. He did like to talk. During his last little spiel, the professor had walked in. She'd dropped something on her desk and stepped over to the closest student to observe. Maybe her being here would be his cue to be quiet now.

Oddly enough, it was the first time in a long time I'd actually felt indifferent to that possibility, rather than relieved.

"I didn't think art was a requirement for creative writing," he said a little quieter, but not whispering. "For some reason, I don't see you picking it as an elective because it's just something you love. So why are you here?"

He'd rambled this without looking at me. I could fake an answer, but what would be the point? It wasn't like it was some big secret. "I want to write greeting cards," I replied as I watched the top of his head. He looked up at me with an unfathomable expression. Then he leaned around the obstruction of the easel, giving me his undivided attention.

"Why?"

If he'd laughed, I would've ignored him. If he'd snickered, I would've cussed him out. But he hadn't done either of those things. His demeanor was unpredictable. He'd plainly asked, and I felt his question pulling my response from within the deepest parts of me. That simple, one-word question shouldn't have been easy to answer. The topic was always hard for me, but in this moment, it was real. Easy. "My sister always loved them. She used to save all the ones she'd get and hang them on our bedroom wall. It didn't matter how basic or elaborate they were, she'd save them. But she always wanted me to make special ones for her. Even before I could write. I'd fold up paper and draw squiggle lines for words and tell her what it said." I half smiled and looked down at my hands. "She'd save those too."

"What happened to her?" My head popped up, and I gaped at him. "You said she loved them. Not love. Past-tense." He shrugged, but it wasn't a rude gesture, just matter-of-fact. I could tell him I killed her. I knew it was the truth, but I didn't want to. Not because I was worried what he'd think of me, or because it was too personal, but because I just didn't want to. Saying that didn't feel right for some reason.

"She died."

"That sucks." He turned back to his artwork, and I barked out a laugh I quickly stifled. It hadn't been a heart-felt condolence or an awkward comment some people make when faced with the topic of death. It was totally unexpected.