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Rian’s feet were tapping in time with my heart.
“Um,” it was me who now had to clear my throat, “um, which school?”
Rian’s arched back rose as he drew in a big breath. “A great one.”
A lot of fucking “greats” going around. So why wasn’t I feeling it? Why wasn’t I feeling fucking great? Why was I actually feeling really not fucking great?
“Which one?” I asked once more.
Instead of answering me, Rian shook himself, sat up, smiled at me, and then joined me on the couch. He took up my hands into his, his eyes wide and earnest.
“Aurnia,” he said, “this really is a great opportunity. An interview with the admission board is a leg up that most people never get when applying to art school. You’ll get a chance to show them your art in person. To show them your passion. To show them who you are. Listen, really, this is going to be the best thing that ever happened to you. There’s no way that they meet you and see your work and listen to your ideas and don’t fall in love with you the way that we have. You take this interview and you’ll get into one of the best art schools in the country. You have to take this chance. You have to go.”
Nearly breathless, Rian glanced down at our interlocked hands and then awkwardly placed mine back over my lap.
“Sorry,” he mumbled, “some people say I’m not great with this whole…interpersonal thing.”
It wasn’t the touching that was upsetting me. It wasn’t Rian’s confidence in me, either. Nor his kind words. He was a gentle spirit, if maybe a little hard to grab ahold of. It was not him who was making my palms go clammy and my eyes prick.
“You still haven’t said which school,” I said, my voice no more than a whisper.
Rian smiled at me weakly and replied, “I haven’t, have I?”
I shook my head.
Rian hesitated and then said, “Look, I would have loved to get you an interview here in Dublin, but I really only have connections back in—”
“Limerick,” I answered for him.
I had been waiting all this time for him to say it. But I had known. In my heart, I had always known. Rian was going on about his time at the school and the different programs and the energy of being surrounded by other aspiring artists.
“I’ll have to move.”
Rian just stared at me, unsure of what to say.
“I’ll have to pack up all of my things and go.”
“Aurnia—”
“I’ll be gone from Dublin Ink. Gone from Dublin. I’ll be gone.”
Gone from Conor.
Rian tried to smile and mostly failed. He went to reach for my hands again, but then decided against it. Both our sets of hands remained limp in our laps.
“It’s a great opportunity,” was all Rian said into the silence.
I nodded as I stared without blinking.
“Thank you for thinking of me,” I said numbly. “I mean, it was your idea, wasn’t it?”
What did I expect? Like really, what did I expect? Did I expect Rian to turn on an old friend, a business partner, a guy he regarded as family for some wrong-side-of-the-tracks juvie brat? Did I expect him to stick up for me when he’d already done just as Conor had asked him to do: get rid of me, the plaything that had become dull, the fuck toy that had been fucked, the little kid who didn’t know her place and had to go?
Did I expect him to grab my hands again and say, “I don’t want you to go, Aurnia. You’re a part of our family at Dublin Ink. Conor’s an eejit. A fucking eejit.”?
It was almost goddamn funny. Because I did.
It hurt like hell when Rian, with a tight jaw and pursed lips, lied through his teeth. “All my idea.”
