Free Ten Thousand Skies Above You by Claudia Gray Page A

last time Paul and I were alone together before Theo collapsed—the last moment our lives seemed normal.
    We lay together on the narrow twin bed in his dorm room, my head pillowed on his chest. Soft classical music played from his phone deck, almost covering the noise from other grad students down the hall. His dorm room is as stark as any other cheap student housing, plus Paul isn’t the kind of guy who would fix it up even if he had the money. He owns this utilitarian navy-blue bedspread, and there’s only one piece of decoration on the walls.
    Hanging above us that night was my portrait of Paul. Not the one I’m painting now, but the first one I ever attempted.I cut it to ribbons when I thought Paul had betrayed us and killed my father. To my surprise, Paul insisted on keeping it just as it is. It reminds me how close I came to losing you , he said. That’s the kind of thing I’d want to forget, but that he always wants to remember. At least he let me patch it up.
    Paul stroked my hair, his fingers untangling my curls. It’s the gentlest, most comforting touch in the world. “I heard from a few more universities today, about my postdoc.”
    One of the weird things about being a scientist is that you have to get multiple college degrees—and even after you get your PhD, you remain a student for another year or two, usually at a different college than the one you studied at before. The point of the whole postdoc thing? I have no idea. It’s a hoop they all have to jump through.
    It would drive me crazy that Paul has to leave, if I weren’t headed to college myself in January. “Which ones?”
    â€œOxford made an offer; so did Stanford. I expect to hear from Cambridge and CERN soon.”
    This is information that would make most people jump for joy. Paul takes it in stride, but my stomach knots. “Nothing from Harvard or MIT? Or maybe Princeton?”
    â€œNot yet. MIT is a possibility, but—professors at Harvard and Princeton are skeptics.”
    About Mom and Dad’s work, he meant. Those are the professors trying to tear them down, the ones who don’t believe us about what happened in December. “Okay, so, we think about MIT.”
    His gray eyes met mine. “It doesn’t matter where I go. I’ll still be yours.”
    I kissed him softly, enjoying the way we were tangled together, the soft sound of his jeans against mine as we shifted to get closer. “But I’d like it if you could be mine, like, every weekend. Not just at Christmas and spring break.”
    What with all the craziness of December, I’d deferred starting college until next January. The Rhode Island School of Design had agreed to that; they preserved my scholarship and everything. January is when Paul’s likely to start his postdoc. If he goes to MIT, we won’t be far apart at all.
    Paul said, “Are you still unwilling to apply to any schools besides RISD?”
    â€œRISD’s the best in the country for art restoration.”
    â€œWhat about fine art?” His thumb brushed along the line of my cheekbone. “Forget taking care of other people’s paintings. Create your own.”
    â€œSee, this is how I know you’re a genius in physics but not economics. Ever heard the phrase ‘starving artist’?”
    â€œI doubt you would starve, as both your parents and I are gainfully employed.” Paul went from adorably literal to practical. “If you could study art anywhere in the world—to be an artist—where would you go? I’ve heard Josie tell you to think about the University of Chicago—”
    â€œNot Chicago.” The words came out too easily, for something so hard for me to admit. “I mean, that’s a great school, but if I could go anywhere? I’d pick the RuskinSchool of Fine Art, at Oxford.”
    â€œWhy Ruskin?”
    â€œThey teach everything there.” I couldn’t keep