Page 8 of Do You Ship It

And then there’s Chloe, who has the exact opposite of a resting bitch face. She does a lot of show jumping and horse riding, and is usually clad in thick leggings and long, worn boots, even if her glasses are Versace. Her dark hair is often plaited, and it must take her hours to get the styles looking so intricate and so neat. Quite honestly, I don’t know where they all find the time to put so much effort into how they look, every day before college. It’s sort of awe-inspiring.

‘Cerys,’ Daphne corrects herself, still smiling at me. ‘Right! I’m sorry. We have media studies together, right? Cute jumper, by the way.’

Nikita adds, ‘Lovethe shoes. I’m obsessed. Are they thrifted?’

‘Oh, um … sort of. They were my mum’s.’

‘Vintage! Ugh, I wish my mum had taste like that.’

Chloe jokes, ‘I wishmymum didn’t have such hideously big feet, so I could actually borrow her shoes!’

‘Oh nooo,’ sympathizes Daphne. ‘Not boat feet!’

‘Never mindboats, they’re like cruise liners.’ Chloe gives a melodramatic eyeroll that makes everyone laugh, and then it’s my turn to order from the barista. I try not to glance their way for approval, but order a pumpkin spice latte. I’ve only had it once before; Jake hates them, and I still remember him choking and sputtering after tasting mine, how he claimed he could still taste it a week later.

The girls carry on chattering without me, resuming their conversation, but I’m pleased when they wait for me to get my drink before Nikita says to me, ‘Ready to go?’ and I get to join them for the walk to college.

I sit by Daphne and a couple of her friends in media studies, and afterwards, even though I’m the first to history and take my usual seat, Nikita comes to sit next to me when she arrives, and then I end up going to lunch with her to join the others. Evie smiles brightly when she sees me there, waving me over enthusiastically as if we’ve never been anythingbutclose. It feels genuine, and I let myself be swept into the fold, trying not to give away how much I could cry with relief at how easy and straightforward this turned out to be.

I’m sweating inside my turtleneck and boots, and Idon’t know how they all look so cool and unbothered in their own jumpers and layers, but it’s so worth it to be included.

IknewI just had to find a way in.

If only things were this easy with Jake.

CHAPTER 4

On Wednesday afternoon, I’m sat in art class. It technically started fifteen minutes ago, although our teacher has yet to show up. Some people have carried on working on their projects – we’re spending this term compiling a portfolio of one study in five different mediums – but most people are scrolling on their phones or chatting to friends.

I feel like I made a huge mistake in opening my sketchbook to carry on with my work; Evie is perched on a table on the other side of the room, her legs swinging as she chats to a couple of people. I should have gone over and joined in. Is it too late now? Probably. I don’t want to intrude, and it’s not as if Evie invited me, is it? (Should she have? Was I supposed to assume a sort of standing invitation? Will she be more annoyed at me for barging in?)

It feels like when I go into the breakroom at the H&MI work at in town, and some of my older colleagues are talking about university courses or childcare and a hundred other things I can’t relate to, and I get stuck on the fringes, too intimidated to try joining in. Too in my head to make a decision.

I stay put.

The piece I’m working on isn’t even anygood. We’ve been given the broad theme of ‘nature’ to work within, and my still-life of a single rose in a vase is bland and lifeless and so basic that, while technically decent, I wonder why I spent so many hours wrestling with the lighting when it’s so wholly uninspiring.

Iam wholly uninspired.

Art used to make me feel …something, at least. Now it’s like I’m just … ticking a box. Like it’s the easy ‘A’ I told my parents it would be. It’s certainly not the hobby it once was, all those evenings I’d rush home from school to pull out the paints and canvas from under my bed. It was a fun class at school and I had really encouraging teachers, but then it became something to desperately distract me from the latest round of bickering that was going on downstairs between my parents. At least I’ve realized I’d be wasting my time to think it could be a career; Dad had to give up being an artist when I was little, and he’s become super resentful about it thesedays. I’m glad I’m learning from his mistakes before it ruins my life, too.

I flip the page away from my crappy rose, landing instead on a half-done sketch from last night. My pencil moves lightly over the drawing, falling into the habit of refining lines and expanding on the outline of the image, adding detail and suggestions of shadow to tend to later. It’s just something to keep my hands busy, since I’ve committed to not joining Evie in her conversation.

The edge of my left palm is smudged grey as my pencil moves across the page, solidifying the lines of a stag’s skull and adorning the antlers in vines that will melt back into the forest behind it. It’s only as that part of the vision takes hold in my mind that I realize what I’m drawing.

It’s a scene fromOf Wrath and Rune. I finally watched the first two episodes last night, and while they were very slow and very strange, there was this part where one of the forest-creatures emerged from the woods. I think it was this antlered character I saw that guy dressed up as at the convention, and while the episode droned on I ended up down a Wiki rabbit hole, learning that because of the low budget most of the special effects like that were done with make-up and clever artistry rather than CGI.

I ended up rewinding that episode to watch it again properly, feeling a little flutter of excitement when the weird stag-man appeared as if from nowhere in the treeline, thinking of all the agonizing artistic detail that must have gone into making that so seamless.

He’s coming to life now, on my page, little by little.

As I realize this, I almost drop my pencil, recoiling in my chair a bit, breath catching and eyes darting side to side like someone’s going to suddenly notice. Objectively, I suppose there’s nothing wrong with fanart, but this is …weird. Isn’t it? Jake told me that OWAR notoriously has averydedicated fanbase; I’m not sure I’m ready for everyone to think of me as one of those obsessive nerds just yet.

But I would like Jake to think it, so I slip my phone out of my bag and grab a photo, trying to be as discreet as I can.

I’m going to be really mad if the stag guy dies by episode 3 after I’ve dedicated my art project to him, I type out, exaggerating the truth only … mildly. (I mean, it’sanart project … of a sort.) Of course I’d updated Jake as soon as I’d started watching, and he wanted all my reactions live-texted to him, but I think he’ll appreciate this a lot.

See? OWAR is totally on my mind, I’m already a huge fan! Now ask me on a date already!

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