Page 76 of Beyond the Lines
Shit.
I fiddle with my textbook, tracing the embossed letters on the cover. The truth is, I’ve been avoiding Mike just as much as I’ve been avoiding Declan. Every time my phone lights upwith his name, I panic, imagining he somehowknowswhat happened in that bathroom.
“Mike’s great,” I lie, my voice unnaturally bright. “Busy with practice and stuff. The season’s ramping up.”
“Hmm.” There it is again, the skeptical hum that indicates she sees straight through me, while simultaneously being disappointed Mike is still choosing to play hockey. “Well, when you see him, tell him to call his mother. I’ve had patients under anesthesia with better communication skills.”
“Will do.” I cringe at how fake I sound.
“Youareseeing him, right?” Mom presses, her doctor’s intuition sensing weakness in my response. “You two have always been so close…”
The guilt twists like a knife.
Mike and Ihavealways been close.
And now I’m avoiding him because I hooked up with his teammate.
God, I’m the worst.
“I’m seeing him soon,” I say, which isn’t exactly a lie if you define ‘soon’ as ‘whenever I gather enough courage to face him.’ “We’ve both just been busy.”
“Good. Family is important, Leanndra. Especially when you’re adjusting to a new place.”
I make a vague noise of agreement, eager to end this conversation before she asks any more questions I can’t honestly answer. “Hey Mom, I’ve got a study group meeting in like fifteen minutes, so I should probably go…” I’m already closing my textbook, ready to make my escape.
“Alright,” she sighs. “Call me next week? And don’t forget to tell your brother to check his messages.”
“I will,” I lie, then hang up.
I know I need to see Mike, and that I can’t avoid him forever. I should text him now, but what would I even say?
Hey bro, want to hang out? I promise not to mention how I blew your teammate in a public bathroom. P.S. Mom says call her.
Yeah, no.
My phone buzzes, and I nearly fall off the bed reaching for it, half-hoping, half-terrified it’s Declan or Mike. But it’s Em:
Coast clear at Lower Dining. Hockey team @ away game. Operation Avoid Hot Headfuck is GO. Meet me for lunch at twelve?
I smile despite myself. Em’s code-named everything like we’re running some kind of black-ops mission instead of just avoiding my brother’s teammate. There’s something comforting about her treating the whole thing with such ridiculous seriousness.
I suddenly feel overwhelmed with gratitude for this girl who was a stranger just weeks ago and is now somehow essential to my survival. The roommate lottery gods were kind to me. Being unable to rely on Mike in this situation—forobviousreasons—has been hard, but Em has been a huge help.
I text back:
It’s a date.
I check the clock. I’ve still got two hours to kill before I meet with Em for lunch. And about thirty hours before tomorrow’s project meeting, which looms like a storm on the horizon—unavoidable, potentially destructive, and altogether terrifying.
I groan and bury my face in my pillow again. At this rate,the only way I’ll survive this semester is if I develop selective amnesia or transfer to a college on another continent.
I’ve been buying time, avoiding him and avoiding any contact, hoping that time and distance might dull the attraction and the tempest of emotions and doubt and fear and?—
Argh!
Maybe I just need a distraction. Something to take my mind off Declan Andrews and his stupid perfect everything, and his stupid way of making me feel things I’m not sure if I’m ready to feel again.
I look down at my blank sketchbook. Drawing. Drawing always clears my head. It’s my meditation, my therapy, and the place where I can put all the chaos of my feelings when they get too loud to handle.
