Pictures of You

Chapter 15

15

Evie

It’s been three days since Oliver Roche exploded into my consciousness and this is my twenty-seven-thousandth confession: I can’t stop thinking about him.

I topped Year Ten biology, so I know what’s going on here. Adrenaline, causing the racing heart. Dopamine, flooding me with feel-good chemicals. Phenylethylamine, unleashing a million butterflies. It’s like I’ve inhaled Oliver and he is now officially taking over my system, jangling my nerves, welding to my atoms.

I refresh my feeds again. But there’s not a single trace of evidence that I got under his skin in the way that he got under mine in our fleeting interaction by the pool. This boy really knows how to play it cool.

I click on his profile photo. It’s a particularly good one of him running across a rugby field, hugging the ball, his thick, muscular thighs plastered in mud. I zoom in on it an unhealthy number of times until my fingers slip and I accidentally tap the thumbs-up. Oh, God !

“Bree! I’ve liked his profile pic!” I barely recognize my high-pitched, frantic voice. “Help!”

Do I undo it, or will that only draw further attention when he sees his notifications? Elizabeth Bennet never had to worry about such romantic politics.

I hold up my phone to show Bree the evidence, hand shaking, stomach plunging with embarrassment. “What was I supposed to do?” I add, pointing at his thighs.

She frowns at the photo, and at me. “Scroll past?”

Ugh. This is why I’ve always had the rule. No boys. Because I am an all-or-nothing person. And that all has always been about being the first person in my family to go to university. A top one. To build a career in forensics that will take me somewhere I can make a real difference. Mum tells me to study less and spend more time in the world with other people. They enjoy their jobs—Mum’s a medical secretary, Dad’s a public servant—but they’re counting down to the day they buy a retro 1960s caravan and travel from one beachside camping ground to the next.

I fling myself onto Bree’s bed, head buried in the Justin Bieber comforter I’m sworn to secrecy about. If there’s ever an emergency, like if she dies or falls in love and unexpectedly arranges to bring a date home, I’ve promised to race here and strip her bed.

“But he hasn’t even contacted you,” Bree says, pointing out exactly what’s been keeping me awake at night. “We probably didn’t even register on his radar the other night, Eves. Didn’t you see him? Everyone is obsessed with him.”

Not the way I am obsessed with him.

“He’s old-fashioned,” I explain to Bree. “It was the way he said that thing about the towel …”

She stares at me like I’ve lost it. Maybe I have.

“He kissed my hand. He’s not the type to sext me,” I add.

“He’s also not going to saddle up a steed, gallop to your front door, sweep you up behind him, and ride off into the sunset,” she says. “I know you and your weird horsey fantasies!”

I’m not a horsey person. I just like the idea of a hero riding into my life on horseback. He’d be instantly lovestruck by my intellectual banter and wild hair. He’d ask if I was lost, but I would simply be strikingly independent. It would be part of my allure .

“Drew seems nice,” Bree says, interrupting my latest fantasy.

Who?

“Oh! Kennedy?”

“You know you totally brushed him off,” she lectures me. “After he pulled you out of the pool.”

That was him? “It was chaotic,” I say, trying to defend myself.

“You were too goggle-eyed over Wet White Shirt to even notice.”

Wednesday arrives and there’s still no contact from Oliver. No friend request. No follows. No liking my profile pic in return, which I’ve changed three times. I’m beginning to think I imagined the chemistry and that Bree is right. He probably looks at everyone that way—as if you’re the single most gorgeous person he’s ever encountered.

I drag myself to Photography Club after school, dejected. After last week, I was going to quit, but I’m hopeful for the vague chance of running into Oliver on campus. I dawdle from the bus stop to the art studio, stealing glances and acting like I have all the time in the world. No luck.

My heart falls as I approach the classroom. I see Drew inside, still looking moody. I feel a pang of regret about being rude on Saturday night.

“Hi,” I say as I walk in.

“Hey,” he replies.

It’s no wonder I’m so disappointed in modern banter.

“Evie, there’s something I wanted to—”

“Drew, thank you for dredging me out of the—”

We both speak at the same time, but before we can draw breath to try again, I hear another voice. “Miss Hudson?”

Both Drew and I turn, and a wave of excitement spreads through my entire being. Can everyone see it? I feel like they must. How does Oliver even know my surname? Oh, that’s right. From my public display of affection over his profile photo …

But he’s standing there with an enormous black eye! And then he places a hand on his chest, and sort of … bows. Who in this century bows, other than people meeting royalty and karate participants signaling peaceful intentions? It’s almost as if he’s done his homework on me, found out my obsession with period drama, and is deliberately communicating in my mother tongue. It’s so much better than “hey.”

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

He produces a camera from his backpack, and I hear Drew sigh.

“I’m here to take pictures of you,” he says. “For the Girls exhibition.”

What exhibition? “Oh! That idea didn’t get over the line,” I tell him, trying not to glare at Drew.

“Nuh, it did,” someone says beside us. “The sports theme would have been so much more interesting.”

I’m confused. Drew is studiously polishing a lens. Did he make this happen? Is that what he was going to tell me just now?

“You know what would have made a great photo for the exhibition?” Oliver says. “You on Saturday night, drenched, with all the pristine girls blurred in the background.”

All the pristine girls blurred in the background.

He did notice me. I hadn’t imagined it. And now he’s here, at Photography Club, greeting me with the politeness of a Jane Austen hero … bad-boy black eye, poetic compliments, and wanting to take my photo, acting like my dream boyfriend come to life.

“Oliver, what happened?” I reach out and almost touch his face, but he flinches before I make contact with his skin.

“There’s a story there,” he admits, with a half smile. “It sort of involves you.”