Page 155 of The Fall
“Warm-ups,” I confirm, keeping my voice steady. “I’m… working on motion studies.”
“Let me see?” His voice drops lower.
The plane hits a pocket of turbulence, jostling us briefly. My fingers tighten around the edges of the book. If I refuse, it only confirms what we both already know. I pass him the sketchbook before I can change my mind.
Blair doesn’t open it right away. He holds it in his hands, studying the worn cover, running his thumb along the spiral binding where some of the metal has warped from being stuffed into my bag too many times.
The overhead reading light casts shadows across his face as he opens to the first page. I stare straight ahead, focusing on the headrest in front of me, counting breaths to keep from snatching the book back.
His expression is unreadable as he turns the page.
His breathing changes. He keeps turning pages, and the space between each flip grows longer.
“You’ve been watching me,” he says.
My gut clenches. I’ve exposed too much.
Heat burns beneath my skin. My teammates snore softly around us, oblivious to how my world unravels in this narrow airplane seat.
Blair turns another page. Each rustle of paper strips me bare. He breathes in sharp through his nose. I dig my nails into my thighs through my jeans. The ice pack slides, forgotten, into the gap between seat and bulkhead. Someone mumbles in their sleep.
I want to reach over and slam the book shut, pretend this never happened. But I stay still, breathing shallowly, as Blair holds my heart in his hands.
He turns another page to the sketch of him mid-laugh, head thrown back, the column of his throat exposed. How can I stop drawing him when he looks like this?
Then he finds the other drawings.
He’s shirtless, his hand lost in his hair, standing in the doorway. He’s curled in bed, the morning sun soft on his face. He’s lying stomach-down in a rumpled bed, every muscle defined beneath skin I’ve never actually touched. He’s smiling at me, lying on his side in bed, soft-eyed across rumpled sheets, his hand reaching for me in a moment of intimacy that never happened, a moment I fabricated completely.
There’s a study of his hand holding mine, our fingers threaded together as though they belong that way?—
His face closes like a door. The wrinkle between his brows deepens.
I stare at my knees, heat crawling up my neck. My body cycles through contradictory impulses—run, stay, explain, hide. Every private fantasy, every stolen moment I’ve created, every desperate wish; it’s all exposed. Every line. Every lie. Every unspoken longing.
Now he knows I spend hours capturing him in graphite.
“Don’t—” I whisper. “You can stop. You don’t have to keep looking.” My voice cracks.
He shuts my sketchbook.
I stay very, very still. What must he think of me now?
This is it, the moment I’ve dreaded. I try to speak, to explain, but words abandon me. I’ve crossed a boundary that can’t be uncrossed.
Blood rushes in my ears as I stare at his hands, still wrapped around my sketchbook. His knuckles pale against the cover. His thumbnails dig little half-moons into the binding.
I want to snatch it back. I want to erase the last ten minutes. I want to go back to when these drawings were mine alone, before I had to face what they reveal about me.
A wounded, wary look slides across Blair’s face. His throat works on a slow swallow. I’ve drawn him countless times, but I can’t decipher what this expression means, or what hides behind the storm surge in his eyes.
“Torey—” His voice breaks off, my name hanging between us. “We—” He starts and stops. His jaw tightens twice. “We need to talk about this. Later.”
“Blair—”
“Later. I—” His voice sounds strained, like he’s fighting for control.
He stands abruptly, almost hitting his head on the overhead bin. Without another word, he walks away, never looking back. His footsteps make no sound. He doesn’t curse, doesn’t call my name. He offers nothing but silence.
