Page 25 of Ricochet

Maybe I’m still weak after all.

The door to the apartment opens and shuts, and I quickly scramble to pick up the dozen or so sketches littering the bed. I get them all tucked into my secret book and just finish shoving it beneath my pillow when my bedroom door is pushed open. I stupidly left it cracked, so I can’t blame Jesse when I see him standing in the doorway.

“Aren’t you supposed to be at practice?” he asks, his bag still slung over his shoulder.

“Yeah.” I run my hand through my hair and tug at the roots at the nape of my neck. “I let Coach know I wasn’t going to make it today. Had to come home early because I was feeling a bit sick in class.”

“Oh, that sucks. Need me to make you some soup or something?”

“Nah, man. Thanks, but I’m good. Just gonna take it easy and study.”

He nods. “Alright. I gotta do the same. Just let me know if you need anything, okay?”

“Sure. Thanks.”

Jesse leaves, closing the door until it clicks shut.

I let out a breath and peer down at my pillow. I swear I can hear the sketches whispering my name—a low, deep echo of a voice.

For some reason, it sounds like Stone.

Turning my back on it, I grab my bag and drag it to me. I pull out my textbooks along with another of my sketch pads, realizing I’m missing my lab manual. I must’ve left it back in the classroom.

“Fuck.”

I push my school books out of the way and pick up the pad. Scooting backwards, I pluck a pencil off my nightstand—they’re fucking everywhere—and lean back against the headboard.

I really should be studying, but after the episode I had, I’m exhausted. Drained. I wouldn’t be able to concentrate no matter how hard I tried. I’d sleep if I wasn’t worried about nightmares.

So I open my sketch pad instead.

Until the tip of the pencil hit the page, I had no idea what I was going to draw. But once it’s moving across the paper, an image starts to form as though my subconscious already knew.

A few minutes later, a set of eyes are peering up at me. Even though there’s no color, I know exactly who they belong to.

Reaching over to my nightstand again, I open the drawer and rummage around until I find an old box of colored charcoal pencils. It’s similar to the one I gave Stone in class—the cardboard box worn, most of the pencils sharpened down at least halfway.

I take out the green and gray pencils and start shading in the irises until they’re the right color.

A forest in the fog.

I had that thought before, and now it gives me an idea.

Using the gray, I lightly draw in silhouettes of trees along the bottom rim of both irises.

When I’m finished, I prop my pad against my knees and stare at the image of Stone’s eyes on the page. Now they really do look like a forest in the fog.

Why do his eyes have to be so fucking beautiful?

He kind of smelled like that too. Woodsy. Like pine maybe. And something else I couldn’t quite put my finger on.

Another thing happened today while Stone held my face in his hands, those eyes holding me captive.

He saw me, and…I didn’t hate it.

Not this time.

I didn’t want him to stop.

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