Page 73 of Beyond the Lines
This is ridiculous. I’ve known Declan for a few weeks and, in that time, we’ve had exactly one real conversation, one fiery art class, one awkward art project meeting, and… whatever the hellthatwas.
So why the hell am Isoworked up about this guy?
I press my hands to my eyes, willing the tears to stop, but they keep coming. Not just for what happened today, but for everything—for Chris, for the trust I’ve lost, for the girl I used to be before I knew how easily someone could shatter me, and for the hope I’d had about college being different and about me being different.
The girl who walked on campus and the girl lying on this bed feel like different people. One bold and reckless, ready to attack a new year, fresh from healing a broken heart, andready to take on the world. The other messy and debauched and confused.
And worst of all, there’s part of me that already wants more.
Ofhim.
Ofthat.
I spend an eternity under the covers, lost in my misery, until eventually I register the sound of a key in the lock. I freeze, holding my breath as if that might somehow make me invisible, even as the door creaks open, bringing with it Em’s typically exuberant entrance.
“Professor Yamada said the mosthilariousthing about jazz dancers, which I didn’t know was possible because dance jokes are usually so?—”
Em’s chatter cuts off, and I can picture her perfectly—eyes scanning the room and landing on the me-shaped lump under the covers. There’s a beat of silence, and I consider pretending to be asleep, but it’s no use because Em has some kind of sixth sense for emotional crises.
“Lea?” Her voice is uncharacteristically soft as her footsteps approach my bed. “Are you OK?”
“Mmhmm,” I mumble into my pillow.
The edge of my bed dips as she sits. “I can literally see your body shaking under there.”
“I’m cold,” I say, my voice catching on the obvious lie.
Em sighs. “I don’t know who you think you’re fooling, but it’s not me.”
I feel a gentle tug on the blanket, but I clutch it tighter, refusing to surrender my polyester fortress. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“OK.”
“Seriously, I—wait, what?” I didn’t expect her to give in soeasily. It’s enough to draw a sobbing laugh out of me. “Who are you?”
Her weight shifts on the bed. “But can you at least let me see your face? Just to make sure you’re not, like, bleeding or missing an eyeball or something.”
Despite everything, I almost laugh. “My eyeballs are fine.”
“Prove it.”
I consider my options. Stay hidden and have Em worry even more, possibly call Mike or my parents. Or show her I’m physically OK, just emotionally devastated, and hope she doesn’t push. So, reluctantly, I pull the blanket down just enough to peer out with both eyes intact.
“Jesus,” Em whispers, her expression morphing from concern to shock. “What happened to you?”
I must look worse than I thought. “No talking, remember?”
“Your mascara is halfway down your face, your lips are swollen, and—” her eyes widen “—is that a hickey?”
My hand flies to my neck, covering the evidence. “No.”
Em stands, crossing her arms. “Just tell me who I need to kill, and put some cider in the fridge for when I get back…”
“Nobody.” I pull the blanket back up, hiding everything but my eyes. “I just… I don’t want to talk about it.”
Em’s expression softens. She sits back down and places a gentle hand on what she probably assumes is my shoulder under the blanket. “Look, you don’t have to tell me. But I’m going to sit right here and talk about Professor Yamada’s jokes until you feel better.”
The thought of enduring her humor in my current state is almost too much to bear.
