Page 75 of Beyond the Lines
sixteen
LEA
I slump deeperinto my chair as my mom drones on about her latest patient—some guy with a rare blood disorder. Normally, I’d put at least a little more effort into caring, but right now, her voice is just background noise to the constant loop of memories playing in my head. Memories involving a certain hockey player.
“…and then the numbers came back completely normal! Can you imagine?” Mom pauses, obviously waiting for a response. “Leanndra?”
“That’s crazy,” I offer, despite having no idea what I’m agreeing with. “Really shows you life is short…”
“You’re not listening, Leanndra.” She sighs, and I can picture her pinching the bridge of her nose, the way she always does when I’m being particularly disappointing, which seems to be most of the time. “What’s going on? Is everything alright at school?”
“Everything’s fine, Mom.” I twist the cord of my headphones around my finger until the tip turns purple. “Just tired. Adjusting to college life, you know?”
“Hmmm.” That single syllable contains at least seventeen layers of skepticism. “How are your classes going? You seemed excited about that drawing course?”
My stomach drops faster than an elevator with snapped cables.
Drawing class. Declan. His hands. His mouth. That bathroom.
Argh!
It’s been three days since the bathroom incident, and I’m fine. Totally fine. So fine that I’ve developed a new skill: the ability to sprint between buildings on campus while scanning for stupidly gorgeous six-foot-two hockey players. My cardio has never been better.
Nor has my appreciation for Em.
After my complete meltdown, she didn’t push for details beyond what I’d shared. Instead, she’s been running interference—checking dining hall entrances before we enter, creating elaborate routes between buildings to avoid Declan, and maintaining a supply of cinnamon cider and carbs.
Without her, I’d probably still be hiding in bed.
But, so far, I’ve managed to avoid seeing Declan, andmostlyavoided thinking about him and his… everything. The clock is ticking, because our next scheduled catch-up for the project is tomorrow night, but that’s a problem for Future Lea that Present Lea is very happy to avoid for now.
“Leanndra,” my mom’s voice is even more frustrated this time, like I’m wasting her valuable time. “I’ve got patients soon…”
I squeeze my eyes shut, as if that might somehow block out my thoughts. It doesn’t. “The drawing class is…”Traumatic? Awkward? A literal hot mess?“…fine.”
“Just fine?” She tuts. “Although your grandmother always said life drawing classes were for unimaginative hacks.”
And there it is—the inevitable comparison to my legendary grandmother.
“Yeah, well, she also thought wearing anything but black was a sign of moral weakness, so maybe her opinions weren’t gospel,” I say.
And regret the words as soon as they leave my mouth.
“Leanndra!” My mom’s voice sharpens. “Your grandmother was a visionary. She dropped?—”
“Dropped out of art school to stage her own exhibition, I know.” I recite the family legend by rote. “And gained enough notoriety that she was able to build a successful career where she frequently exhibited in Paris, London, Athens, Madrid, and New York.”
The silence on the other end crackles with disapproval.
“I’m sorry,” I sigh. “I didn’t mean to be disrespectful. The class is actually really challenging and interesting.”
And contains a six-foot-two hockey player who’s been haunting my dreams.
“Good. And what about your other classes? Are you keeping up with the reading in all of them?”
I let her steer the conversation to safer waters, detailing my other courses, my professors, and the ridiculous amount of reading assigned in my art history class. Anything to avoid talking about life drawing and the complicated mess that is Declan Andrews.
“And how’s your brother?” Mom drops the question I’ve been dreading. “He hasn’t been answering my texts. I just get those one-word responses.”
