Page 101 of Beyond the Lines
A flash of gratitude crosses his face, and a knot of guilt tightens in my stomach. “Yeah, that’d be great. Thanks, man.”
I nod, even though I know it’s bullshit. The passes were fine. Perfect, actually. But, drowning in guilt from my feelings for his sister and concerned for my friend, I’ll take one for the team. If it helps even a little to get Mike tuned-up before the scout comes, it’ll be worth it.
“What time works?” I ask.
“Seven? Before morning practice?”
I want to groan at the early start, but I nod instead. “Sure. See you then.”
Mike heads to the showers, tension visible in every line of his shoulders, and I’m left feeling like the world’s biggest fraud. I’m lying to my best friend and captain about his own hockey, I’m pretending not to have feelings for his sister, andI’m faking excitement about a hockey future I’m increasingly unsure I want.
When I turn around, I find Linc staring at me with raised eyebrows, a towel wrapped around his waist.
“What?” I snap.
“Nothing.” He grins. “Just wondering what’s got you looking so tortured.”
“Figure drawing,” I repeat, scowling at him. “And I need a model.”
“A model?” He scoffs. “Why not Altman’s sis?—”
“Shut the fuck up, idiot!” I punch him. “If Mike finds out?—”
“Finds outwhat, Dec?” He raises an eyebrow. “Did you see her again?”
My voice trails off. The night of the party, he’d seen me peel Lea away from Ben Mitchell and follow her outside, but I hadn’t told him what happened. I’d just texted him saying I was too angry to go back to the party and that I was going home. But it’s clear he suspects more happened…
“No,” I lie, again, which is becoming a habit. “But I can’t draw her…”
Doing so would be an incredibly bad idea right now…
“Who then?”
This could work.
Linc is the perfect solution to the problem I’ve been dreading. Because, tonight at our project catch-ups, Lea and I are meant to draw each other again for the first time sincethatnight, and I’m not sure if I can handle that sort of intensity and attraction…
“Hey, Linc, did you want me to come to Maine’s party tonight?” I say.
“Of course I do, numbnuts.” He shrugs. “Why?”
“Well,” I say, grinning. “I’m going to need your help…”
I’m early to the studio, because I’m a masochist, apparently.
Waiting for Lea, I arrange my pencils on the small table by the easel, then rearrange them, then do it a third time. My need for order feels pathetic even to me, but I need something to do with my hands that isn’t texting her.
When she finally arrives, she’s bundled in a thick sweater, despite the studio’s persistent overheating problem. She gives me a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes, awkward and forced, like most of our conversations these last few weeks have been.
“Hey,” she says, dropping her bag by the second easel, which I’ve made sure is on the other side of the room to me.
“Hey yourself.” I sound like I’m auditioning for a teen drama, but she doesn’t seem to notice.
“Sorry I’m late.” She digs into her bag, pulling out supplies. “Professor Winthrop kept us over.”
“No problem. I just got here.” I’ve been here twenty minutes, but the wait was preferable to this awkward small talk.
She nods, carefully unpacking her stuff—a set of charcoals, her sketchpad, and an array of pencils that make mine look amateur. The silence between us is like poison, hurting me, because there’s so much I want to say that I know I can’t without hurtingher.
