Page 31 of Between the Lines

“Do you mind if I play my music?”

Get your head out of the gutter, Nathan.

“Not at all. Honestly, I should head back to my?—”

“Oh. Not a chance. I’m running you through concussion protocol as soon as my timer is up.”

Yeah. So. Claire in charge might be added to the fantasy before I go to bed tonight.

“Mr. Harding? The music? Is it okay…?”

I swallow, hating the sound of my professional name on her lips because it puts an ocean of divide between us. I can’t put my finger on why I want to stitch that distance between us up, but the urge is too strong to deny.

“Nathan. Please, call me Nathan.” For some reason,thatpinks her cheeks. “And by all means.”

With my unoccupied hand, I indicate to the phone in her hand. She presses play, and continues shuffling around the room like she had been when I’d interrupted her by head-butting her door. She collects the papers she’d dropped earlier, and gets right back into herrhythm, as if our little mishap never happened. It only takes one cheerful pop song for me to interrupt, the need to know what she’s doing here so late more powerfully present as it bangs around in my head than the blood that rushed to the place where I’d actually banged it.

“What are you working on?”

“Oh! End of novel centers. They finishedThe Outsiderslast week, so we’re doing a few stations with each standard to wrap it up instead of just taking a test.”

On the table where she stopped, she lifts the stack of hot pink papers.

“This one is theme, over in that far corner is symbolism…” She points to each table, clearly thought out and organized to review this book in its entirety. “…and at this last one, they’ll get to draw a character of their choosing to show the shift from beginning to end.”

She looks so immensely proud of herself. I can’t even deny that I am, too. How did I ever perceive her as incapable?

“This is… quite incredible, Ms. Benson.”

“Claire. Claire is good.”

“Claire.”

That syllable feels heavy and sweet on my tongue. I can’t pay it any more attention.

“Maybe if we’re on a first name basis, I won’t seem like a monster to everyone else?” I offer. She laughs, this quiet little puff of sound that I’m suddenly craving more of.

“I don’t think you’re a monster at all,” she says. Her smile startles at the sound of her phone timer, and with that, she closes the gap between us again. The feel of her skin against mine burns like the surface of the sun, and yet somehow, I want to be closer.

“Really?”

“Nah,” she says, the corner of her lip lifting into a smile that’s a sultry combination of sly and sweet. “You’re more like the Grinch.”

I huff a sarcastic chuckle.

“And that’s supposed to be better?”

“Of course.” Her eyebrows squish together in a way that says,Duh, idiot. “He was never the bad guy in the first place. The Who’s just couldn’t see through the rough exterior to the man on the inside. They never gave him a chance to open up to them. Plus, his heart was three sizes bigger by the end, so that’s gotta count for something.”

I don’t have time to process the truckload that statement dumps onto me, because suddenly, she’s lifting the ice pack from my forehead and inspecting the damage.

“Hmm… Doesn’t look too bad. You’ll definitely want to ice some more at home. It might be a pretty color in the morning. Does your wife have any make-up that you can borrow?”

“No wife.”

I swallow down the concrete flavor of that truth, and the red in her cheeks intensifies.

“Hmm.”

---