Page 70 of Shadows in Bloom

How was your summer?

Unsurprisingly, she shoves the notebook out of her space, and hooks an arm around her desk as if to some sort of boundary between us.

I roll my eyes, and scribble another question, before slamming the notebook into her forearm.

Aren’t you dying in that ghastly monstrosity you call a sweater?

This time, she makes a pointed effort to ignore me—not so much as even glancing down at what I had written. Rather than continue with her notetaking, she just seethes silently with her attention lasered on the front of the room.

With a sigh, I write, Still as stubborn and uptight as always, I see. Glad to know some things don’t change.

I add a little kick to her calf this time around.

That does the trick.

Whipping her fiery hazel gaze my way, she curls a lip up at me, nostrils flared. She mouths, Stop.

Unable to help myself, my eyes drop to that pink, bow-shaped mouth of hers, tracing the silent word on them.

Her first word to me in three years.

I don’t even realize I’m staring until a hitched intake of air has my eyes snapping up to find hers wide from behind her glasses. The second we lock eyes though, she’s whipping her head to face front, a notable tick pulsing along her jaw.

Not so immune to me after all…

I don’t miss when her attention flicks toward the notebook still shoved up against her forearm. Her brow furrows, and she ducks her head, long wispy strands of brown hair falling around her face.

My gaze darts around her head, my fingers itching with the need—the reflex—to loosen and redo her braid. Not that it won’t make much difference, but I never minded when we were kids. If anything, I loved the feel of her long, silken hair slipping between my fingers as I wove braid after braid after braid. Practicing all sorts of types on her. She has such good hair for it. Pity, she can’t ever keep them intact.

A clap rings out, and I force my attention back to the front of the room just as Sister Christine says, “For the remainder of class today, I’d like you to start brainstorming ideas for your first project. Your neighbor will be your partner. No exceptions.” I don’t miss the way her gaze flits this way, expression stern.

Winifred slumps, and mutters something I can’t make out under her breath. Certainly not a curse…

Not from sweet angelic lips like Winnie’s.

Chatter breaks out across the room—papers rustling. Heads bunch together, with only a couple curious, wandering sets of eyes darting our way.

Ignoring them, I close my notebook and stack it on top of my textbooks, before setting my novel on top—a weathered, well-read copy of The Bell Jar that is marked and tabbed and rabbit-eared to hell.

Winifred’s fleeting wrinkled glance at the book reeks of about as much judgment and displeasure at the narrowed look she sends my way when I say, “So, buddy. Looks like it’s just you and me.”

Face tight, she juts her chin at my closed books, and says, “Aren’t we supposed to be brainstorming?”

I turn my head fully her way, cocking it with a mock-gasp. “She speaks.”

She responds flatly, lowly, “I’m going to talk to Sister Christine after class.”

Matching her volume, I round my eyes and lean toward her conspiringly. “You do that.”

Our gazes lock once more—for the second time in a span of minutes. A record for us—or, well, this estranged version of us. And I can’t help but wonder what she sees when she looks at me now. What has that flush spreading over her cheeks, and that fine sheen of shimmering sweat forming around her temples.

I imagine it can’t be all due to the ridiculous layers she’s wearing.

When her glasses start to slip, she quickly reaches up to shove them back into the place, and lowers her gaze.

“So, how do you feel about the Book of Revelation?” I ask abruptly.

She’s in the middle of tucking the hair behind her ears, when my words give her pause. Frowning, she says to her lap, “What?”

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