Page 88 of Damaged Boys Don't Fall For Bubbly Girls
“Trapped in his fantasy books,” Finn says with a chuckle.
“I’ll grab some pudding another time,” Brock tells me.
We chat more until the bell rings. We clean up after ourselves and dump our trays, then separate to our classes.
During bio, I hope the teacher will assign us a project so I could try to get a better sense of what’s going on with Brock. Maybe he’ll feel more comfortable opening up if it’s just me without the other guys. But unfortunately, there are no projects or assignments, just a plain boring lesson. The only exchanges Brock and I have are when we catch glimpses at each other’s notes or when my pen accidentally rolls underneath his chair.
The day comes to an end, and everyone is bustling in the hallway, discussing their plans for the weekend. There probably is a party somewhere tonight, but I don’t think the guys are interested in going. I’m definitely not.
“You still headed to the dance studio?” Finn asks me.
“Yeah. Do you mind dropping me off?”
“Of course not.”
Even though Brock told me he plans on going home to take a nap, a part of me wonders—hopes—that he’ll offer to drive me to the studio. But he wishes us all goodbye and walks out of the school building.
I’m about to ask the guys if any of them notice that something is bothering Brock, but from the looks on their faces, they seem totally oblivious. Could it be it’s all in my head? Either way, I don’t want to bring it up because I don’t want to make a big issue if it really is nothing. And if it’s not a nothing, I don’t think Brock would appreciate everyone being all up in his business.
Finn has to make a small detour to drop Gael off at his grandparents’ house, since they’re celebrating his grandmother’s birthday tonight. Then he slows down before the dance studio.
“Later, everyone!” I call as I open the door and get out of the van.
“Don’t overwork yourself, okay?” Finn reminds me.
“Yeah, thanks.” I wave as the van drives off.
Studio A and Studio B will have classes soon, and I think Studio C should have one scheduled in another hour. Which means I only have an hour to rehearse. I get dressed and tie on my ballet shoes, then put on the music.
For the most part, I have this dance number down, just a few minor areas I’m struggling with. But as I practice the parts I know backward and forward, I find myself struggling. Which is very odd because I’ve been acing these moves for years.
Shaking my head, I tell myself it’s okay. Everyone has off days. I just need to shake it off and try again.
I manage to get past the first half of the number, but I’m still struggling with the rest. Darn it. What’s going on? It’s like I can’t concentrate. Something is distracting me.
I try not to sigh because I have a feeling I know exactly what’s stuffing my mind. Brock.
His face floats before my eyes, his sad eyes and bothered expression. Maybe I should have tried talking to him instead of waiting for him to approach me? What if he needed someone to reach out to him? But what if I was too pushy?
But what if he thought I didn’t care?
I cover my cheeks and shake my head. Why are things so confusing? How is a person supposed to know what the right thing to do is?
Hopefully, he’s talking to his parents or therapist. Maybe they can help him make sense of whatever’s bothering him.
Feeling relieved by that, I decide to rehearse a different dance sequence. This is the one where I’m struggling the most, but I should be making progress on it because I’ve been also practicing in my room.
As I dance, my eyes keep darting toward the door. As though I’m hoping Brock would appear and surprise me like he did that one time. Tell me that he wants to be here to support me. But the minutes tick by, and there’s no Brock. Why does that disappoint me? He told me he was going home to nap.
My leg twists and I crash down to the floor. “Darn it!”
“Lexi?” Zuri, who was passing by, sprints into the studio. “Are you okay? Did you twist your leg?”
“I’m okay,” I assure her as I move it around, feeling for any pain. “I think I saved myself in time.”
“That’s a relief. Let me help you up.” Once I’m on my feet and Zuri is sure I’m not hurt, she asks, “Are you okay? I noticed you’re struggling with your dance numbers. I don’t understand—I thought you nailed them before.”
I sigh. “Yeah.”
