Page 107 of Beyond the Lines
“My point is,” Em continues, ignoring my correction, “you’re an adult. Not Mike’s emotional support animal. If you like Declan—and honey, those drawings suggest you’re well past ‘like’ and cruising straight into heart-eyes emoji territory—then maybe you should explore that…”
“But Mike?—”
“Nope.” She shakes her head. “If Mike needs support withwhateverhe’s dealing with, you can support him, independent of your love life. Becauseyou’llbe much happier in that case,which your brothershouldwant, and you can stop drawing the same scarred knee for four?—”
My eyes narrow at her sudden silence. “What?”
Em looks at my sketchbook. Before I can protest, she’s flipping back to the drawing of Linc’s leg. She studies it for a moment, head tilted. “Huh.”
“What?”
“This…” She traces her finger along the curved line of what’s supposed to be Linc’s surgical scar. “This doesn’t look like his scar at all. It looks like…”
My stomach drops as I look at the page with fresh eyes. The supposedly anatomical drawing has morphed during my hours of work. The curve of that scar now perfectly matches the line of Declan’s jaw, the one that leads down to his neck, to the pulse point that thrummed under my lips when I?—
“Oh my god.” I slam the sketchbook shut, mortified.
Em bursts into laughter. “Girl, you’ve got it bad. Like, terminal-case bad.”
I groan. “I’m losing my mind.”
“No, you’re just in?—”
“Don’t say it,” I cut her off. “I’m not. I barely know him.”
“Fine. But whatever this is, it’s not going away.”
“You don’t know that,” I say. “If I ignore it, I?—”
“I’ve tried that strategy with homework. Zero success.”
There’s silence for a moment.
“It’s not just Mike,” I finally admit, my voice barely audible.
“Lea,” she raises her eyebrows, her eyes boring into me.
“It’s not about Mike… or notjustabout that…” I finally admit. “I’m scared, Em.”
Em turns her head to look at me. “Because of Chris?”
I nod. “I gave everything to that relationship. My summer,my heart, and my…” I trail off, not needing to finish the thought. Em knows the whole sordid story. “And he was playing me the entire time. What if Declan’s doing the same thing? Or worse, what if we try for real, and it messes up his hockey, and he resents me?”
Em wraps an arm around my shoulders. “Oh, sweetie. What if you do nothing but spend all semester drawing endless portraits of what might have been?”
A tear slides down my cheek. I don’t even realize I’m crying until it splashes onto the page, blurring Declan’s carefully smudged jawline. “Shit.”
“For what it’s worth,” Em says, her usual goofiness giving way to genuine warmth, “I think he’s crazy about you. The way he looks at you when you’re concentrating? Like you’re a puzzle he can’t solve, but he’d happily spend the rest of his life trying?”
I stare at her, blinking back tears. “Really?”
“I was there that night at the party,” she says. “When he pulled you away from Ben. That wasn’t just some guy being protective of his friend’s sister. That was jealousy. Territorial, caveman-brain, testosterone-soaked jealousy. It was fuckinghot.”
Another tear falls. “I don’t know what to do.”
“You do.” She nods at the sketchbook. “These aren’t just drawings, Lea. They’re what you want. And I don’t want you to miss out on something good because you’re worried about what happened over summer or what might happen if Mike finds out...”
Miss out.
