Page 105 of Beyond the Lines
I glare at her, then I smirk. “Thanks for that comforting thought.”
“Here to serve.” She tosses the coffee-soaked notes into our tiny trash can. “So what masterpiece has you so hypnotized you’ve forgotten the outside world?”
My pulse quickens as I casually flip through my sketchbook to a different page. “Just working on some stuff for life drawing.”
I land on the sketch of Linc’s leg with its web of surgical scars—thankfully not the obsessively detailed drawing of Declan’s face I’d just spent two hours perfecting.
Em leans over my shoulder, her coconut-scented shampoo tickling my nose. “Hey, isn’t that Linc’s knee? The hockey guy with the red hair?”
I blink up at her. “How can you possibly recognize someone’skneefrom all the other knees in the world?”
“You’re a good artist?” She says with a dismissive wave, then shrugs when it’s clear I don’t believe her. “He’s always at the gym in those tiny shorts, and the scar pattern is pretty distinctive. Plus, I happen to appreciate legs in general. How long have you been working on this, anyway?”
I glance at my phone and wince when I see the time. “Oh. Um… about four hours?”
“Four hours?” Em sits bolt upright. “You’ve been drawing Linc’s knee forfourhours?”
“The texture of the scars is fascinating,” I say defensively,which isn’t entirely a lie, although I hadn’t been working on it—on Linc—for long at all.
“Sure,” she says, drawing out the word until it has at least seven syllables. “Wrong hockey player, I think…”
The words land like a cannon shot.
And she’s right.
Linc is not what I’ve been obsessing over.
This is exactly what I used to do in high school—get fixated on perfecting some tiny detail of a drawing until I could barely see straight. It’s part of why I burned out so badly before graduation. Why I had to take that semester off to travel and reset my brain before starting college.
But this time, I’m not obsessing over the art, I’m obsessing over the subject.
Em’s phone buzzes, and she glances down at it. “Marnie wants us to meet her at The Bean in twenty minutes for a life-or-death. Apparently Trevor smiled at her from across the cafeteria today, and this requires immediate dissection by the whole squad over overpriced lattes.”
“I don’t think I can?—”
“Nope, this isn’t optional, this is an intervention.” Em cuts me off, tossing a clean shirt in my direction. “You’re not spending another four hours on Knee-mageddon. Fresh air. Human interaction. Caffeine that isn’t spilled all over your desk.”
I catch the shirt, conflicted.
Part of me wants to stay here with my sketches.
With Declan, even if it’s just graphite on paper.
Something flutters in my stomach at the thought of him.
Not that it matters.
It’s not like Declan’s shown any interest in seeing me again after…that.
Just once, I’d told him.To fuck it out.
And apparently that’s exactly what he did. One night, then back to strictly professional art partners. No texts except about the project. No lingering looks in class. He sits as far away from me as physically possible now, like I have some contagious disease he’s desperately avoiding.
And instead of drawing me—myoneinvitation to show Imightstill have interest in something more—he chose his hockey buddy.
“We need to talk about this,” Em says, interrupting my Declan spiral again.
“Talk about what?” I ask, feigning innocence.
