Page 70 of Blindside Me
I press my palms to my cheeks. “What thing?”
“That scrunchy nose thing.” She twists her face up in a parody. “Like you’re constipated with secrets.”
“I do not look constipated!” I sit up, indignant.
“Focus. Klaas. Details. Now.”
I sigh. I really hate lying. “Seriously, we just got caught in the rain walking back from campus. It was late, and I didn’t have an umbrella. He offered to take me home.” That’s not a total lie. He did offer. I just didn’t accept. She doesn’t need to know he showed up after I got back.
“Very chivalrous,” Callie says dryly. “And then he just happened to shove his tongue in your mouth as what … a parting gift?”
“It wasn’t like that,” I repeat, but the memory of Drew pushing me against the wall makes me shiver. “It was … I don’t know what it was.”
“Looked pretty clear to me,” Callie says. “But whatever helps you sleep at night.” She stands, gathering her dirty clothes and tossing them in the hamper. “I’ve gotta hurry. Or else I’ll be late for class.”
“Wait, why were you coming home so late? I thought you said you’d be gone all night.”
Callie freezes, then shrugs too casually. “I was going to, but plans changed. My study group quit early.”
“Uh-huh.” I lean back. “Does this ‘study group’ have a name? Maybe a male gender one?”
Callie’s cheeks flush pink. “Shut up,” she mutters, grabbing the hairdryer. “At least I can admit when I’m into someone.”
“I’m not—” I start, but she turns on the dryer, drowning out my weak protest.
My eyes narrow. I’m not sure I believe her, but we both seem to be lying through our teeth this morning. Maybe that’s the real bond, pretending things are easier than they are.
Callie dries her hair, staring into the mirror like nothing life-altering just happened. Like my world isn’t still tilted sideways.
She finishes, grabs her book bag, and darts out the door. Silence roars back in, and I sag into it.
That’s when I spot my sketchbook, still open on the desk.
My feet move before my brain catches up.
I slide out of bed and sit at the desk. My fingers find a pencil, and before I realize it, my hand is moving.
Line after line emerges, sharper and more urgent than my usual work. The curve of a hand gripping a waist. The angle of a jaw, tight with tension. The wild, almost desperate look in a pair of eyes that I’ve tried not to notice during class, games, or study sessions.
I blink, suddenly aware that I’ve filled three pages with Drew. His hands. His eyes. The exact moment before he kissed me when everything changed.
“Shit,” I mutter, slamming the sketchbook closed. This is not happening. I am not becoming one of those girls who lose themselves over a hockey player. Not again. Not after falling for a player who was good at pretending he cared.
I’m smarter now.
Less naïve.
I shove the sketchbook aside, telling myself I’m overreacting, and head to the bathroom. But if I thought the hot waterwould wash away the memory of Drew’s touch, I was wrong. If anything, it intensifies it. The heat against my skin reminds me of the heat of his body. My fingers linger on my lips, which still tingle.
Wait.
Callie’s not right, is she? I can’t be falling for him.
No, no, no. Absolutely not.
But the lie is so obvious it’s almost funny. The truth barrels in. Last night wasn’t just heat or a mistake. It was real. Terrifying. Consuming.
I feel it in my bones, in the racing of my pulse, and in the way my skin remembers exactly where his fingers pressed. Something changed when Drew kissed me. Something fundamental shifted, like tectonic plates rearranging the landscape of what I thought I knew about myself.
