Page 103 of Beyond the Lines
I feel a ridiculous stab of jealousy, which is absurd because Linc is just being Linc. And besides, Lea made herself perfectly clear I have norightto be jealous. We fucked it out, and now we’re done.
“Let’s get to work,” I say, more sharply than intended.
As Lea sets up her easel, I catch myself watching thecareful way she arranges her workspace, how she pushes that one particular curl behind her ear when she’s concentrating. When our eyes meet accidentally, we both quickly look away.
This is torture. Pure, self-inflicted torture.
But as Linc settles in, regaling us with jokes and stories, I realize having him here is actually a relief. His presence creates a buffer, making it impossible for me to say something stupid.
I pick up my pencil and start sketching the long, jagged scar that runs along Linc’s left knee. The act of creation centers me, as it always does. In this space, I know who I am and what I’m doing.
“So, Lea,” Linc says conversationally as if sitting while people draw him is the most natural thing in the world, “Dec tells me you’ve got a killer eye for detail.”
She glances up, surprised. “He did?”
“Well, no,” he says. “But I figured he must be trying to match your skill, since he’s been drawing that picture of you for, like, ever.”
My pencil freezes mid-stroke. “Linc,” I warn.
“What picture?” Lea asks, looking at me in a way she hasn’t in days.
“Ignore him,” I say quickly. “The hair dye has seeped into his brain.”
“Whatever, bro.” Linc grins, completely unrepentant. “Just telling it like it is.”
I focus intensely on my sketch, refusing to look at either of them. But I can feel Lea’s gaze on me, questioning, curious. After a moment, she returns to her own work, and I exhale slowly.
We fall into a comfortable rhythm of drawing and light conversation, mostly Linc telling stories about the hockeyteam’s antics and trying to make Lea laugh with jokes about Mike.
After a while, though, I stop hearing him entirely. The world narrows to just my pencil, the paper, and the careful interplay of light and shadow as I trace the web of scars across Linc’s knee. There’s a strange beauty to them—testament to pain, resilience, and healing.
The largest one curves like a crescent moon beneath his kneecap, raised and slightly paler than the surrounding skin. The tissue looks tight, almost like it’s pulling against itself. I reach for a softer pencil, wanting to capture the subtle tension in that damaged tissue.
The way it fights against itself.
That feels familiar somehow.
My hand moves with confidence I rarely feel on the ice anymore. Every stroke feels right, purposeful. I gently blend the edge of the scar with my fingertip, smudging the graphite to create that slight puckering effect where the tissue stretches.
Time dissolves.
“Dude, did you hear me?” Linc’s voice suddenly penetrates my concentration.
I blink, surfacing. “What?”
“I said my phone is blowing up,” he says. “Maine wants us over there…”
“Oh, yeah, cool.”
I glance at my sketch, surprised by how much progress I’ve made on completing it. The drawing has taken on a life beyond mere reproduction—there’s emotion in those scars, a story.
“I’m almost done with the sketch if you want to take offsoon…” I say, then look at Lea, who nods that she’s almost done, too. “Lea as well.”
“OK, good.” Linc holds up his phone. “Because Maine says to ‘hurry the fuck up to the fucking party’ because—and I quote—‘these freshmen are hot as fuck.’”
I glance up, because I know it’s another shot fired by Linc at the situation between Lea and I. And when I catch Lea’s eye, she’s looking at me with an expression I can’t quite read—part curiosity, part…
Desire?
