Page 12 of Come Break My Heart Again

Easy, sinceIhave no idea how I feel about it. All I’ve ruled out so far is indifference. Apathy isn’t staring at someone for a minute without choosing to.

“Yeah.” Ryder smirks, but there’s nothing carefree or amused about the shift in his expression. It’s a challenge. An appraisal. His eyes harden to the consistency of metal, not just the color. There’s no lust or worship in his expression, the way most guys look at me.

No warmth.

No apology.

He’s acting like we’re the strangers anyone would call us.

“For good?”

It’s a stupid question. If this were a short visit, he wouldn’t have shown up for school.

“You’re still blocking the door,” he says, apparently agreeing that didn’t require a response.

Ryder takes a step closer. He’s three feet away from me now, maybe less. Waves of heat wash over my body, my breathing turning too rapid.

I forgot how exasperating he is. How blunt. How captivating.

Electricity buzzes across the surface of my skin as I register his closer proximity. I have yet to process that he’s reallyhere, near enough to reach out and touch. My fingers curl into fists,nails digging into the soft flesh of my palms, and I hope he doesn’t notice.

“Yeah, you should get to class. Your attendance record is pretty terrible.”

Amusement appears, flashing across his perfectly symmetrical face, in response to my casual reference to his two-year disappearance. The sight of it feels like a victory. Satisfaction spreads as we continue to stare at each other while I battle against all the questions I want to ask.

Why did you leave?

Why did you come back?

Did you miss me?

Rather than voice them, I move out of the way. Ryder sidles past me without another word, so close that I can feel the heat emanating from his body.

Three deep breaths later, I follow him into the classroom. Kinsley’s curious eyes remain on me the entire time.

Ryder’s standing at the front of the room, talking to Mr. Anderson. I take a seat in one of the front rows like the teacher’s pet that I am. Kinsley takes the desk next to mine as I reach down to pull a new notebook out of my backpack. I deliberate between a black or blue pen for a ridiculously long time, trying to appear busy.

“Hi, Elle,” Brock Patterson greets as he walks by. He’s on the football team with Archer.

“Hey, Brock,” I respond, sitting up and flipping through blank pages.

Ryder chooses my row to enter the sea of desks. I don’t know if it’s intentional—I sat in the middle of the five, and at least six other students have also passed me by—but itfeelsintentional. I keep my eyes fixed straight ahead as he walks past, attempting to ignore the heat I can feel flooding my cheeks as my body reacts to his proximity.

Class begins a couple of minutes later.

Mr. Anderson launches right into a lecture, dropping a stack of papers at the front seat in each row to be passed back. The course syllabus. I dawdle as I scan the top page, trying to avoid turning around until I have to. When I do, I keep my eyes on Liza Jones, who sat behind me, passing her the stack with a small smile before spinning right back around.

Mr. Anderson continues outlining the first topic of the semester—World War I—as I flip through the pages of the syllabus. Normally, I’d be taking careful notes by now. But calming myself down seems like a more pressing task at the moment.

As I page through bullet points on decades of world events, I mull over how ironic it is that this is the class I’m facing Ryder in.

But that’sallwe share now.

History.

He made damn sure of that.

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