“You going to the cafeteria? I’m starving!”
“Uh . . . no. I already ate. Sorry.”
She nods, stripping off a paint-covered T-shirt. “Dance class or work?”
God, why couldn’t I have just left five minutes earlier?
“Neither. Studying.”
She gives an exaggerated snore. If she knows where I’m actually going, she’ll never let me hear the end of it.
“Fine. Go do your thing. But first . . . I made something for you.” She drags her large portfolio bag that she uses to carry her artwork onto the bed. She unzips the top and reaches inside. “Ta-da!”
She thrusts a small canvas painting in my direction. In the center in thick, deep red is a heart (the metaphorical, not anatomical, kind). It’s painted so that it looks three-dimensional, like I could pick it up off the page. And down the center of the heart are black, string laces, pulled tight, and squeezing the heart, exaggerating its shape.
“It’s your corset heart. Remember?”
I remembered our discussion in the library before Carson had interrupted us, the one all about how I am laced too tightly to ever let myself fall in love. When I really think about it, that oppressed heart is a pretty damn accurate depiction, but as I hold it in my hands, I feel my stomach toss. I might be sick.
“You hate it,” Stella says.
“No, it’s really pretty. I love the colors.”
“But you’re not exactly a hearts-and-flowers kinda girl. I know. It’s fine.” She moves to take it back. “I’ll just paint over it. Try something new.”
“No!” I jump back, holding the small painting away from her. I clear my throat. “No. I’d like to keep it . . . if that’s okay with you.”
Stella looks even more shocked than I feel. “Really?”
I nod.
“Yeah. It’s all yours.”
I slip it in my oversized purse, say goodbye, and walk out the door.
I’ll keep the painting because it’s pretty, because Stella made it and against all odds, I love her. I’ll also keep it as a reminder of the person I’ve let myself become.
I DIDN’T LIE to Stella, not really. I just didn’t elaborate on what studying meant. Or more specifically, with whom I’ll be studying. I ran into Carson earlier today on my way to my geology class as he was leaving. He asked what I was doing tonight, I said homework. I asked him, and he answered the same. And when he suggested we do our homework together . . . at the same time . . . in the same place . . .
I agreed.
I volunteered to meet him at his apartment again because I still am not ready for the ramifications of hanging out with him in public. It seemed like a reasonable, harmless way to spend the evening.
Wrong. Oh so very wrong. In fact, I keep hearing that word, echoing like a gong in my head. I changed probably half a dozen times before settling on a simple pair of shorts (the longest pair I owned) and a V-neck tee.
And as I pull up outside his apartment, I am a mess. A hot mess. A steaming pile of . . . mess.
I know how dangerous this is. The potential stupidity of this night is epic in nature, but I still don’t turn around and get back into my car (even though I really should).
Between our interactions so far and the unfamiliar rawness in my chest that’s been chafing at me since Stella gave me that painting, I am not at all in control.
I should walk away. That’s what I do when I find myself in an unpredictable situation with immense potential for pain.
Most of the issues in my relationship with Levi had stemmed from the fact that I was always willing to be the one who walked away. We’d get in these awful fights (not unlike Dad and me), and they only ever ended in one of two ways—Levi backed down or we broke up.
Not normal, I know. But we always got back together. It had always felt like a given, until suddenly it stopped feeling that way. He set a state record for our conference; he and my dad started talking about playing college ball, and suddenly it felt like I wasn’t the only one willing to walk away if I didn’t get what I wanted.
So rather than walking away after our last fight, I gave him what he wanted. In the back of his pickup truck, parked in the lot at the football field of all places.
He walked away anyway.
I will never be in that position again. I will never be the person who cares more, because that person is always the one who hurts more.
And yet here I am, knocking on Carson’s door, telling myself that my heart is only in my throat because I’m out of practice at making new friends.
Yeah right.
“Just a second!”
I almost run. But then I imagine how ridiculous it will look when he opens his door and I’m sprinting down the stairs and across the parking lot like the crazies on Black Friday.
He opens the door, and if I hadn’t already sucked in a breath, I would have had to do it again. He’s wearing university sweatpants, hung low on his hips, with a thin white cotton T-shirt. His hair is wet like he’s fresh from a shower, and in a few places his shirt is damp and see-through, stuck to his skin.
I can smell him. Over the sticky September air, over the chlorine from the pool that his apartment overlooks, over everything.
“Hey. Come on in.”
This is such a bad idea.
But when I peek inside, his coffee table is covered in papers and books, and the pencil in his hand tells me he was working when I knocked on the door.
He really does just want to study. I can do this. I can. And if at any point it gets to be too much, I always have my trusty backup plan.
Walk away.
I step just far enough inside for him to close the door, but when he heads to the couch, I stay where I am. He has the overhead light on tonight, so the room is brighter, less intimidating. He looks up and in the well-lit room his blue eyes look almost electric.