Page 104 of Beyond the Lines
Jealousy?
It’s like there’s a question in her eyes, asking whether I’ll be taking advantage of some of those freshmen, but she doesn’t ask it. I wish she would—ask that, or anything else—because it’d be the first real conversation we’ve had in weeks.
And the answer is no.
Because, looking at her, I can see the only person I want to be with, even if I can’t be. I’ve never been interested in fucking the puck bunnies, but now more than ever the thought leaves me cold.
And, just like that, any benefit from having Linc here has evaporated.
I can’t stop thinking about her again.
I’m about to open my mouth to say something to her when a phone buzzes.
Linc sits up straighter, clearly uncomfortable with the charged atmosphere. “Is that yours or mine?”
“Mine,” I say, digging into my pocket, glad for something to break me out of my focus on Lea. It’s a text from Mike, but I pretend it’s a call. “Hey.”
I step into the hallway, pretending to have a conversationwhile my heart hammers in my chest. After a moment, Linc joins me, still wearing just the towel, eyebrows raised.
“Smooth, Andrews. Very convincing.” He smirks, then lowers his voice. “The sexual tension in there is thicker than Coach Barrett’s neck.”
“It’s nothing,” I insist, still pretending to listen to my nonexistent caller. “I’ll catch up with you later.”
“Sure, whatever.” Linc doesn’t look convinced. “You should come to the party—it might help you stop making moon eyes at Mike’s sister for five minutes.”
As I give him the finger, he returns it cheerfully before walking off. “See you at Maine’s place,” he says.
Alone in the hallway, I end my fake call and lean against the wall, exhaling slowly. I need to get a grip. I came up with this whole Linc-as-model plan to make things less awkward, not more.
When I glance back through the studio door’s small window, I see Lea still at her easel, eyes focused intently on her drawing. The soft afternoon light streaming through the high windows catches in her hair, turning the edges to gold. She bites her lower lip in concentration, a habit I’ve noticed she has when she’s completely absorbed in her work.
She’s so goddamn beautiful it hurts.
I should go back in and tell her that the hooking up didn’t “fuck it out” just made me want her more. I should tell her that I don’t care what Mike thinks. I should tell her that I know she’s scared and still hurting, but we’ll work through it together. I should tell her that I want her more than anything, and that if she wants me, we can make it work.
But I don’t do that.
She’s already made her choice clear.
One time, that’s all. Those were her terms.
So instead, I put on my game face, and go back in there to pack up my stuff.
twenty-two
LEA
The pencil leaddigs into the paper as I shade the contours of his jawline for what must be the hundredth time. There’s something about the angle that still isn’t right. Too sharp, maybe? Or not sharp enough? I lean closer, my nose nearly touching the page as I carefully smudge the edge with my finger, trying to?—
“Living statue spotted in its natural habitat!”
I jump so violently my coffee mug teeters, tipping over and sending a wave of lukewarm brew cascading across my desk. Cursing in panic, I scramble to rescue my sketchbook, lifting it high as dark liquid seeps into my economics textbook, a small price to pay versus the risk of losing my irreplaceable sketches.
Em stands in the doorway, grinning. “That’s what happens when you become one with the furniture.” She tosses her backpack onto her bed and crosses to my desk, grabbing an old T-shirt to blot the spreading coffee stain. “Dude, you didn’t even hear me stomping around. I could’ve been a campus serial killer.”
“There is no campus serial killer,” I mutter, carefully setting my sketchbook face-down on my bed.
“Not yet,” Em says cheerfully. “But when there is, you’ll be the girl in the horror movie who gets taken out in the first fifteen minutes…”
