The graduate building smelled like cheap wine, fresh printer paper, and dry paint.
Brynn shoved a plastic cup into my hand the moment we walked through the doors.
“Here.”
I looked at the dark liquid.
“What is it?”
“A bad decision served at room temperature.”
I took a sip. Too-sweet grapes, harsh alcohol, and a metallic taste from the rim of the cup.
“Awful.”
“It’ll be good for you.”
The exhibit occupied the entire first floor: white walls, fogged windows, spotlights aimed at the photographs. Students leaned against columns. Professors pretended not to overhear their students. A table at the back sagged beneath cubes of cheese, soft crackers, and grapes. Nobody wore a team logo. Nobody talked about injuries.
Nobody expected me to pull athletic tape from a pocket. My fingers loosen
