Page 41 of Heartthrobs Don't Date Wallflowers
I nodded, muttering a quiet, “Thanks.”
As I stood up, I caught Zach’s gaze, and my heart fluttered. He stepped forward again, glancing at the nurse.
“She good to go?” His tone was businesslike, as if he was making sure I wouldn’t collapse from my tragic accident.
The nurse smiled reassuringly. “Yep, she’s all set.”
We walked out of the office, and I shifted awkwardly, unsure of what to say. My mind was still racing with the fact that Zach had basically just rescued me in front of half the school.
“Thanks,” I finally said, glancing over at him as we started down the hall to the main area of the school again. “You didn’t have to stay here with me.”
Zach shrugged, his hands tucked back into his pockets. “It’s not a big deal.”.
“Right, but I mean, you’re a busy guy, and here you are, helping me out. I feel like I should repay you or something,” I rambled, my nervousness bubbling to the surface. “Maybe I can get you a smoothie from the café or, um, I could… I don’t know, make you cookies? Everyone loves cookies, right?”
He didn’t respond right away, his expression unreadable as we walked. “You bake?”
“No,” I admitted with a sigh. “But my mom actually?—”
I snapped my mouth shut mid-sentence as I realized what I was about to admit to him: that my momhad suggested I bake the boys brownies and go by their house to introduce myself when we first moved in. I told her it was supposed to be the other way around, with the people who already lived in the neighborhood welcoming the newcomers.
“Never mind,” I mumbled.
“You don’t need to make me cookies,” Zach said when I didn’t speak again. His eyes were set on the double doors at the end of the hall, like walking in a straight line to them was taking intense concentration. “I’m the one who pushed you, remember?”
“Yeah, but I was the one in the way.” I was trying to crack a joke but the delivery came out all awkward and based on the way he was frowning at me, he didn’t think it was very funny.
The bell rang, reminding where we were—and more importantly, where we were supposed to be. From my calculation I’d have to sprint across the school to make it to math and I had no idea where Zach is meant to be, but I was sure it wasn’t here.
“And now I’ve made you late for class,” I said, letting my head fall back with a groan. “Gosh, I’m so sorry. Really. I didn’t?—”
“Don’t do that.”
I frowned and tipped my head back to look at him. “Don’t do what?”
“Don’t apologize for things that aren’t your fault.”
I stared at him with my mouth agape, wanting to say something but not sure what. Really, my first instinct was to apologize again but I wasn’t sure howhe’d take that.
In the end, I didn’t need to. He stepped back, almost walking into the doors to the stairwell.
“Take care of yourself, Ivy Wade,” he said.
He pushed the door open and disappeared before I even had the chance to ask him how on earth he knew my full name.
twelve
Watching Zachthrough the window quickly became a pastime of mine. A creepy pastime, sure, but a pastime nonetheless. I tried to justify it to myself by saying that it was the same as watching him from the balcony every time they had a bonfire, but I guess looking inside his window was a little bit different than watching them in the backyard. Either way, I found myself doing it every single day that week. And on the day that the locker slam happened, I saw him watching me back.
My heart almost stopped when I saw him there. I wondered if he knew how much I’d been watching him. If he was appearing here to tell him to quit it and to leave him alone. Could I play it off as something casual? As just a one-time thing somehow? But then he held up a notebook. On it was a hastily written note:
You okay?
I frowned for a second, confused by the question, but then he pointed at his hand, and I realized he was talking about mine–the one that was still swollen and aching every time I moved it. I could almost feel his hold on it again, the way he’d cradled it so gently as he guided me through the halls this afternoon.
Without taking my eyes off him, I slipped my notebook off my desk and grabbed a marker. As I took the cap off of it, I realized that writing with my hurt fingers was going to be difficult. But I was atrocious at writing with my left hand, so I would just make do.
What was I supposed to say? What could I write that would be short enough to fit on the paper while still being readable for him? Eventually, I just settled for something simple:
