Page 44 of Blocked Score

Lane’s question pulls me out of my thoughts and back into reality.

“Huh?” I question.

He nods toward my calf as we cross the street off campus. “The butterfly tattoo on your leg. It’s new. Or newer.”

There’s a skip in my heartbeat. “Oh. I got that one about eight months ago.”

Lane makes a sort of humming noise in his throat that I can’t quite read. “The pair of dice above the inside of your elbow is new, too.”

“You can tell?”

He quirks an eyebrow, the edge of his mouth twitching. “Of course I cantell. They’re inked right on your body.”

I roll my eyes. “No, I mean … you can tell they’renew? You actually remember which tattoos I had … back then?”

An unsteady feeling bubbles in my chest. I’ve danced around our history so much that I should change my major to performing arts. Actually talking about it, remembering it when I’m right next to Lane on a still, quiet night feels like doing cartwheels at the edge of a cliff.

“I remember everything about back then.”

My stomach lurches like I’m strapped into a roller coaster cresting over a peak.

His declaration is simple, but every word feels charged. Pure honesty drips from his tone. But then … why?

“Really?” My words feel unsteady in my mouth. “It was a long time ago.”

“Not for me.”

My heart leaps up to lodge in my throat. My brow draws down. What’s going on here? How can Lane act like what we hadtwo summers ago matters to him still when he was the one who stood me up to go feel on other girls at a party?

Is Lane just one of those hot-and-cold guys who gets off on giving girls emotional whiplash? Again, I can’t convince myself to believe it. It’s totally at odds with everything I know about Lane, from the month and a half we spent that summer to the brief time I’ve known him again here at Brumehill.

Anger coils inside me. How dare he do what he did and then act like any of it mattered to him? What excuse could he possibly have?

Yeah, maybe he texted me on that day when I lost my phone and didn’t get a response, but so what? He knew where and when we had agreed to meet, and he didn’t show up. He didn’t stop by Demi’s place. He didn’t even show up the next day before I had to leave for the airport to say goodbye one last time. He knew when I was leaving.

And now, eighteen months later, he wants to act like I’ve been stuck in his mind ever since?

Does he just want to get me in bed again? Is that his angle? Outrage boils through my body at the thought. I don’t really buy that as an explanation, but what other explanation do I have?

All I know is, by the time we get back to the house, I need space and I need it bad.

“Do you …” Lane starts to ask just as we’re walking up to the porch, right where I fell into his arms not too long ago.

But I don’t want to know the question that’s on the tip of his tongue. He’s thrown me through enough of a loop tonight. My heart is going crazy, my brain is filling with so many questions it feels swollen against the inside of my skull, and I’m too damn close to yelling at him about how much he hurt me two summers ago, finally blowing up the façade of coolness I’ve been able to maintain and maybe ruining my housing situation.

So, I grab my heels from his hand and hurry up to the door.

“Thanks for the sneakers,” I say, not even sparing him a backward glance. “Good night.”

Then I run up to my room and shut myself in. But I can’t take my eyes off the wall that I know he’s on the other side of when I hear his door close, too.

22

LANE

“You’ll catch a cold.” My voice sounds dour as I stand leaning against the island in the kitchen, my arms folded tight over my chest, watching Scarlett and her friend taking pregame shots in the living room before going out.

Scarlett rolls her eyes before they close in a grimace at the shot of whiskey burning down her throat.

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