Page 40 of Beyond the Lines
“Nice of you to join us,” the professor raises an eyebrow, questioning me being late, but I can’t sense any malice in the look. “Please sit over there…”
I nod and slide into the empty seat as quietly as possible, keeping my eyes down and trying not to draw attention to myself. My heart is still pounding from the run, and my cheeks are probably flushed, but at least I made it.
The professor continues, “As I was saying, welcome to Life Drawing. I’m Grace Lucas. Most of you know me already, but for those who don’t—or for those of you who were late—I expect excellence, dedication, and above all, respect for the craft and your fellow artists.”
As she talks, I pull out my supplies: charcoal, pencils, and erasers. The familiar tools calm me, grounding me in the moment, sending a jolt of happiness to my heart and my head. Because this is where I belong, and this is what I’m here for.
Not boys.
Not hockey.
Art.
The model takes their position on the raised platform, and I’m so focused on getting my materials ready and listening to the professor’s instructions that it’s only when the timer clicks that I register the person sitting next to me.
My stomach drops.
Because of course.
Ofcourseit would behim.
Declan.
In the flesh.
And suddenly, life drawing becomes a lot more complicated than I expected.
eight
DECLAN
Ofcoursethis is happening.
Lea is in life drawing.
Because the universe is an asshole.
This is the place that should have been my one escape, the class I’ve been excited for since registration opened. And now she’s here, close enough that I can smell her perfume—something light and citrusy that puts allsortsof unwelcome thoughts in my head.
I try to focus on Professor Lucas’ words, but my attention keeps drifting to Lea. She’s pulled her curly hair back into a messy bun, and a few rebellious strands have escaped. My fingers itch to tuck them behind her ear, but my mind screams at me for attention.
Focus, Declan.
“Today we’ll begin with quick gesture drawings—two minutes each. Then we’ll progress to longer poses.” Professor Lucas gestures to our model, a mid-twenties woman who’s wrapped in a navy robe. “Remember, these first sketches areabout capturing movement and energy, not detail, so don’t get precious about it.”
As I grab a piece of charcoal, I can’t help but glance at Lea again. She hasn’t looked at me once after that first glance and her clear shock at my presence. Her shoulders are rigid, spine straight as a ruler, and she’s staring at her blank paper like it holds the secrets of the universe.
The model drops her robe and takes her first pose. Usually, this is when everything else falls away—when it’s just me, the paper, and the challenge of capturing the human form in a few quick strokes before moving on to the next in a series of poses.
But today, my mind won’t quiet, becauseshe’shere, the girl I’d convinced myself I’d forgotten, because of all the reasons it made sense to. The fact that she is Mike’s sister, the fact that she hates my guts because she thinks I lied to her, the fact that she didn’t give me the chance to explain.
But now, none of that seems to matter.
And she’s in my head, big time.
My first few attempts are trash. The lines are hesitant, nothing like my usual confident marks. I can’t stop thinking about Saturday night at Marie’s, how easily conversation flowed between us, how her eyes lit up when she talked about her grandmother, and thenthatkiss.
The model shifts to her next pose, and I force myself to concentrate.
