Blood and Biochemistry

Chapter7

Evangeline

By the end of my first week at Ravenwood, I had developed a routine.

It was not healthy or sustainable, but it was mine.

Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays began with chemistry at eight thirty. Tuesdays and Thursdays began with calculus at eight.

Every morning began with Mason attempting to cook something he had no business touching.

By Wednesday, he had ruined oatmeal.

I had not known oatmeal could be ruined. Mason had found a way.

“It’s not burned,” he insisted.

Oliver looked into the pot. “It’s smoking.”

“That doesn’t automatically mean burned.”

“It’s black.”

“Cinnamon.”

“You didn’t add cinnamon.”

Mason lowered the spoon. “Then I may have made a mistake.”

Adrian reached past him and turned off the stove. “You are no longer permitted to use heat without supervision.”

Mason looked offended. “I am an adult.”

“You put aluminum foil in the microwave yesterday.”

“It sparked immediately. I learned.”

“You should have learned before.”

I poured coffee into my pink mug and leaned against the counter. “He has a point.”

Mason turned to me. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”

“I’ve known you for five days.”

“And yet we’ve bonded through adversity.”

“You caused the adversity.”

“That’s still bonding.”

Oliver lifted his black mug. “He has another point.”

Adrian looked between the three of us as though reconsidering every decision that had led him to this kitchen.

I smiled into my coffee.

That irritated him.

I was beginning to notice the things that irritated Adrian.

Mason breathing too loudly. Oliver leaving mechanical pencils on the coffee table. Cabinet doors left open. Lights left on. Shoes in the hallway.

My fairy lights. My quilt. My books. My mug.

Me.

Especially me.

He never said it directly. Adrian did very few things directly.

Instead, he paused in the doorway when he found my calculus notes spread across the dining table. His jaw tightened when my backpack appeared beside the couch. He stared at the purple cardigan draped over the back of a kitchen chair as though it had crawled there on its own.

At first, I apologized.

“Sorry. I’ll move it.”

“Sorry. I forgot.”

“Sorry. I was studying.”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to leave that there.”

By Thursday, I stopped.

Not because I wanted to annoy him.

Mostly.

But because I lived there too.

Housing had confirmed the assignment for the entire semester. My name was on the paperwork. My key worked in the lock. My shampoo was in the shower.

I had a shelf in the refrigerator and exactly one mug in the cabinet.

I was allowed to exist without apologizing for every sign of it.

Adrian disagreed.

He simply lacked the courage to say so.

“You left your textbook on the couch,” he said one evening.

I looked up from the dining table. He stood in the living room holding my organic chemistry book between two fingers.

“I know.”

“It has been there for three hours.”

“I’m still using it.”

“You’re sitting across the room.”

“I like options.”

His eyes narrowed. “Books are not decorative.”

“Tell that to every library.”

Mason laughed from the kitchen.

Adrian turned toward him.

Mason immediately became fascinated by the contents of the refrigerator.

Adrian crossed the room and placed the textbook beside my elbow, aligning its edge perfectly with the table.

“Thank you,” I said.

He stared at me.

I smiled.

His jaw tightened.

Definitely irritated.

My schedule left very little time to enjoy it.

Classes consumed most of my mornings and afternoons. The library consumed the gaps between them.

The Ravenwood Café took three evenings a week.

I had applied for the campus job before I arrived, choosing the café because it offered late shifts and free food during breaks.

The free food mattered.

Three shifts barely covered groceries, toiletries, and the things my scholarship did not.

Four would have helped.

Five would have made me feel safe.

Five also would have killed me.

The café closed at ten. By the time I wiped down my station, counted the register, and walked across campus, it was usually closer to eleven.

Then came assignments. Reading. Lab preparation. Scholarship requirements.

The occasional call from my father that I never answered.

Any more work and I would not have had time to breathe.

Some days, breathing already felt overly ambitious.

On Friday night, I arrived home after my shift with coffee on my sleeve and a headache pulsing behind my left eye.

The apartment was dark except for the lamp beside Oliver. He sat at the dining table surrounded by graph paper, a ruler, and what looked like the early stages of a nervous breakdown.

Mason was asleep on the couch with one foot hanging over the armrest. A nature documentary played quietly on the television.

Adrian stood in the kitchen.

Of course he did.

He leaned against the counter with a book in one hand, dressed in a black shirt and black pants, his feet bare.

He looked entirely too composed for eleven fifteen at night.

His eyes lifted when I entered. “You’re late.”

I closed the door. “I work until ten.”

“It’s after eleven.”

“I can read clocks.”

“You walked alone.”

“Most people do.”

“Most people make poor decisions.”

I dropped my backpack beside the couch. “Were you waiting up for me?”

“No.”

His answer came too quickly.

Oliver glanced up from his graph paper.

I looked at Adrian’s book.

He was holding it upside down.

A smile tugged at my mouth. “Of course not.”

His gaze dropped to the page.

He turned the book around without comment.

I walked into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. My shelf held a wrapped sandwich and a container of cut fruit.

I frowned. “I didn’t buy this.”

“Mason did,” Adrian said.

From the couch, Mason mumbled, “No onions.”

His eyes remained closed.

“What?”

“You hate onions.”

“I don’t hate them.”

“You pick them out.”

“That doesn’t mean I hate them.”

“It means you don’t like them.”

Mason lifted one hand in victory without waking fully.

I looked down at the sandwich.

Turkey. Cheese. Lettuce. No onions.

Something warm settled in my chest.

“Thank you.”

“Welcome home,” Mason mumbled.

The warmth tightened.

That word again.

Home.

Adrian’s eyes remained on his book.

I ate the sandwich at the counter.

He stayed until I finished.

He claimed he was reading.

I pretended to believe him.