Chapter Fourteen
Ihunkered down in the library all day Sunday to finish the paper I noped out of Friday night.
I thought I’d have an easier time of it, since I read Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier last year for my GED, but apparently I forgot more than I remembered.
Still, I finally finished just as the library was closing.
I managed to sneak in a few texts to Doug, too, who kindly ignored the fact that it took me a week to reach out.
He was chatty and filled me in on what the bar regulars are up to, and he didn’t ask too many questions about how things are going here.
It almost felt like he was reassuring me that life back home is waiting for me whenever I come back.
And … I don’t know how to feel about that.
Doug’s messages filled me with a surprising ache. On the one hand, I miss him and the bar and even the regulars. I miss Mom and our shitty apartment. I miss home, despite how hard life is there. I guess it’s normal to miss what’s familiar to us.
But on the other hand, I’m starting to wonder what it will be like to return to the life I’ve been living in New York.
All these Wickham kids are going places after school—places beyond the local watering hole for slow shifts and bad tips.
Belinda Winters is like the rest of them, a girl with nothing but potential stretching out ahead of her.
Being me again after having a taste of being her is going to suck.
Today has been refreshingly uneventful. It might be wishful thinking, but some of the kids I saw at Freddie’s party seem to be warming up to me.
I heard more than one “Hey Belinda” while I was crossing the courtyard after lunch, where Arlo saved me a seat so he could recap what he called my “nuclear annihilation” of Abigail in the hot tub.
I get the impression that the urge to tell that girl to go pound sand is one most of the student body shares. I should start a club.
I only have one more class before the academic part of my day is done—and the work I actually care about can begin. Julian and I are going to have a long overdue conversation this evening. He doesn’t know it yet, but he’s going to fess up to whatever he had going on with my sister.
I’m a bundle of nerves when I enter the art room, but I stop short when I realize I’m the only one here.
Where’s Connor? He’s always in the room first. Sometimes I wonder if he secretly sleeps here because seriously—he’s always here.
When he breezes in a few seconds later with a giant smile on his handsome face, I realize it’s the first time I’ve ever seen him enter the space from the hall.
The thoughts that run through my head come very close to melting me into a puddle of sentimental goo.
Phrases like wow, a person really can light up a room, and there’s my guy bubble up totally unbidden.
It’s cute and gross and really worrying, given Connor has no idea who I really am.
“Billie.” He approaches, ducking to brush the briefest kiss on my lips. “Looking adorable as ever.”
His unusually good mood leaves me in a state of shock. It’s like I’m frozen in place as he drops his backpack on a nearby desk and unzips it. “Hello to you, too,” I finally manage once I find my voice.
He grins. “We’re going to create some real art today, so I hope you’re ready.”
“Real art?” I don’t try to hide my skepticism.
What does he mean by “real art”? The past week I’ve spent blobbing watercolor paint on thick paper has proved to us both that I’m not exactly brimming with natural talent.
I can admit to feeling more than a little disappointed that Mom’s considerable artistic gifts didn’t get passed down genetically.
It would have been nice to make something I could be proud of—that she could be proud of.
Stupid, I scold myself. What’s she going to do, display my latest masterpiece on the communal fridge at the rehab center?
Maybe Connor won’t care that I don’t have any real talent in this area. Maybe he’s so enamored of me, my lack of artistic skills won’t matter to him. Fingers crossed.
“Yes. We’re going to sketch croquis of each other. You ever done those?” He raises his brows.
I slowly shake my head. It sounds like he said croakee, which seriously … WTF. It’s like he’s speaking a foreign language, which I’m guessing he is, but anyway. “Um, no. I have no idea what that is.”
“They’re also sometimes called gesture drawings. Here, sit down.” He points at a chair, and I do as he says. “Give me a minute and we’ll get started.”
He sets us both up with three sharpened art pencils and spiral notebooks of lightweight drawing paper, then settles into a chair across from mine.
“What are we supposed to do?”
“We draw each other for a minute at a time.” He gestures to the sand timer sitting on the table between us. “Your pencil should never really leave the paper, and you shouldn’t look down at what you’re sketching, either.”
“I’m not supposed to look at it?” My voice squeaks because yikes. The potential for this sketch to be awful is high enough, but I can’t even look at my paper? Forget it.
This is going to be terrible.
Connor shakes his head, his mouth quirked up on one side. He appears amused by my panic. “When the minute is up, we share what we’ve done so far. Then we flip the timer and do it all over again.”
“For how long?” My palms are starting to sweat.
“Until we’re finished. Or until we run out of paper. Or as long as we like, really.” He shrugs.
“So … once?” I ask hopefully. “I’m sure there are other, more interesting things we can be doing here. In this room where we’re the only occupants. With a door that locks.”
“Belinda Winters, you are scandalous.” His droll tone makes me smile. “Okay, go!”
He flips the sand timer with a quick flick of his fingers and starts sketching while I sit here like an idiot. His eyes never leave my face, even as his hand moves in swift, smooth movements.
“Billie, start sketching. Time’s running out.”
Again, I do as he says, keeping my gaze locked on him as I draw a circle on the paper that’s supposed to be his head. He’s watching me, too, his eyes narrowed and lips pressed together while his hand flies across the paper.
I cheat and check my sketch, wincing when I see the mess I’m making. It’s obvious I’m not an artist. Not even close.
“Time’s up,” Connor announces, flipping his sketch pad in my direction. It’s a rough but passable outline of the shape of my face and hair, without any real details. Still, looking at it feels a bit like staring into a fogged mirror; I know my face is there, just hidden.
I show him my sketch, and he tries and fails to contain a bemused smile. “Nice.”
“It’s terrible.”
“Let’s keep going.” He flips the sand timer to restart, and off we go.
I try to infuse a little more artistic talent into my sketch this time around, but I fear I’ll look down to find an even more unholy mess than my first attempt.
When the next minute is up and we share what we’ve done, Connor laughs so hard at my feeble attempt that he actually slides off his stool and has to hang on to the table for support.
Meanwhile, my jaw hangs open in unabashed awe at his sketch.
He’s managed to capture the curve of my neck. The slope of my cheek. The shape of my eyes and the shadow under my bottom lip. I can tell that’s me and not some random drawing of a girl. He’s so good.
We do another round, and this time I lean into my terribleness. His eyes are exaggerated circles, and his nose is a triangle with aspirations of greatness. I don’t care what my picture looks like as long as I get to see his drawing of me again.
“I look like a clown,” he declares when I show him my progress.
“I’m capturing your inner child, obviously.” I shrug, though I’m smiling. “You make me look better than I actually do.”
It’s true. He’s added more fine detail to my face by shading in my quirked lips and fanning my eyelashes. My expression is flirtatious. Almost knowing.
“This is what you look like, Billie.” His voice is soft, and when I meet his gaze, I see how serious he is.
My heart flutters, and I wave a hand at the sand timer. “Flip that thing. Let’s keep this going.”
I feel like a jerk as I continue to draw him because he looks more like a balloon animal than anything else. And when the last grain of sand falls and we’re flipping our sketch pads toward each other, all the breath gathers in my throat at what I see.
It’s a fresh page in his notebook, and it says “Go out with me?” in blocky script at the top. He added a quickly sketched and perfectly beautiful bouquet of flowers below.
I don’t say anything at first. It’s like all the words I’ve ever known turned into wispy white clouds and got blown away. Nothing but clear blue sky in my head.
I use the silence to study the face that has become so dear to me in the short time we’ve known each other.
It’s the first time today that I actually regret not having the ability to draw him.
I wish I could capture this moment, this boy, us, on paper.
Maybe then I could keep them—this moment, this boy, us—for a little while, instead of giving it all up when Connor figures out who I really am.
I lean over and flip the sand timer, our gazes never straying from each other.
It’s intense, the way he watches me. Waiting patiently for my response.
I stare back, unable to look away, my heart pounding so hard I’m worried it might fly out of my chest. The rational side of my brain reminds me we’re moving too fast. I barely know him.
But the romantic part of my brain? Can’t deny the connection. The attraction. The chemistry.
The problem?
I still don’t trust it—the connection. Or him. Not fully. I don’t think he’s responsible for what happened to Emily and Isla, so it’s not like that. More that I’m worried what might happen if I fully give myself to this boy. And how mad he’ll be when he finds out I lied to him.
That’s the worst part. The lies.