Page 65 of Beyond the Lines
To his groin—which?—
Oh god, stop!
I shake myself out of it, tearing my eyes away to focus on my drawing. The next few minutes are a mess of stops and starts and an embarrassing amount of erasing as I try to capture his features without getting lost in them.
But eventually, I find my rhythm, and the pencil becomes an extension of my hand, moving across the paper with newfound confidence. I lose myself in the work, in the challenge of capturing the subtle planes of his face.
When I next look up at the clock, I’m startled to find an hour has passed, because it felt like a few minutes. Declan has set his pencil down, apparently finished, and he’s just looking at me.
“Switch?” he suggests, extending his sketchbook toward me.
“OK,” I say, with a confidence I don’t feel.
My stomach tightens with both anticipation and dread. I hand him mine, careful not to let our fingers touch—lest that set off a whole new chain reaction of feelings—and take his in return.
The breath goes out of me when I see what he’s created.
It’s me, but not quite me—both more and less than me.
He’s drawn my profile with such attention to detail that I’m stunned. Yes, the drawing is abstract, with bolder lines than I’d use myself, but he’s nailed the shape of my mouth, and the curve of my chin.
Even with half my face, he’s captured everything.
The piece is full of passion, skill, and flair. There’s life in it—a vibrancy that seems to pulse off the page. It makes me look… beautiful, but not in a conventional way. Beautiful in a way that’s fierce and unapologetic.
Like how my grandmother used to paint.
“Declan,” I say, eyes still locked on the sketch. “This is incredible…”
I look up at him, feeling gooey, but the feeling evaporates instantly. His eyes are on my drawing of him, brow furrowed, squinting slightly as he studies it closely. My heart sinks as I watch his expression.
The slight downturn of his mouth.
The deepening crease between his eyebrows.
It’s the exact same expression he wore in class when we wrote critiques of each other’s work. The same look that accompanied the remarks that have haunted my attempts to create ever since.
“You hate it,” I say, a conclusion, not a question, my voice smaller than I’d like.
He doesn’t answer immediately, still examining the sketch with that critical gaze, and my anxiety spikes. Suddenly, I feel worse than that moment when I found out Declan lied to me and worse than the moment he’d delivered his stinging critique.
Because this, looking at him silently judge my work, is a kill shot to my soul.
“Forget it,” I blurt out, stuffing my things into my bag. “Forget this whole thing. Forget the project, forget the class. I’ll just take life drawing next semester. There’s still time before the add-drop period ends. You’ll just have to tell Professor Lucas to find you another partner…”
Then I turn and I’mgone.
Forgood.
I’m vaguely aware of him calling after me, louder than is advisable in a library, but I’m already through the door and into the hallway. My vision blurs—stupid tears threatening to fall—as I scan for somewhere to escape.
I can’t bear to hear his criticism, not right now, not when I was finally starting to feel like maybe I could create somethingvaguelyworthwhile again, and starting to feelthatabout him once more.
I just have to escape.
The nearest door is a single-stall bathroom. I grab the handle, ready to duck inside and barricade myself, when suddenly his hand covers mine on the handle. In one fluid motion, he pushes me inside, closing the door behind us.
The click of the lock echoes in the tiny space.
