Chapter Eighteen
Eighteen
JAMIE TRAILS ME THROUGH THE studio to the open door of the back room, where shelves of work in varying stages of completion are stored.
At a long table in the back, I find my own pieces—the girl in a box with Deonne’s addition, the half-finished hand pressing into skin, some miniatures I did during our first class.
“It’s not much,” I say. “We don’t have a lot of finished pieces—we usually work on technique.”
“Will I go back here?”
I flush. It’s strange to hear him refer to what I just made as himself, like it’s a part of him. “Um, no. That comes home with me tonight. We had to bring a model we know so we can keep working on it independently if we want to. At our own pace.”
He’s quiet for a moment as he looks over my work. I’m holding my breath, waiting for him to pass judgment on what I’ve made with my two hands.
“Does that mean you’ll need me to do this again?” he asks, his gaze sliding my way. “Sit for you?”
“No,” I answer quickly. “I’m sure this is the last I’ll work on it. I don’t really have time at home.”
Jamie is quiet, head tilted as he surveys my work. I don’t understand what he’s studying so intently. There isn’t much to look at.
I sigh. “Jamie, what are you doing here?”
“Mikey asked me to fill in.”
“I thought you were mad at me.”
He stills, then turns to me. “I’m not mad at you.”
“You’ve barely spoken to me—”
“You haven’t talked to me either, Blair.”
I bristle. “You stopped sending me stuff for Cram Session.”
His mouth tightens, those lines appearing again. “That wasn’t because I was mad.”
It’s as much confirmation as I need. “So it’s because I had a breakdown? You’re worried you’ll push me too hard, and it’ll happen again?”
Jamie hesitates, then nods.
“You could’ve told me that. You didn’t have to cut me out.”
“When was I supposed to tell you? You wouldn’t even look at me.”
“What are you talking about? You’re the one who wouldn’t look at me!”
“Blair, I’m always looking at you.”
I don’t know if it’s the pleading, desperate look in his eyes, or the way the force of his words brings him forward a step, so close we’re nearly touching, but I—
Oh. God.
I kiss him.
Jamie sucks in a surprised breath that comes straight out of my lungs, his mouth opening under mine.
I have to grab the front of his shirt to steady myself, and his hands find my waist, anchoring me against him.
Soon I’m clutching his shoulders, one hand sliding up into his hair, fingers sifting through feather-soft locks.
This doesn’t feel like a first kiss. There’s no delicate passing, like cracking crème br?lée and taking miniature bites with a tiny spoon.
As soon as my lips touch his, it is a fifth date, stolen in the car around the block so your parents don’t see, hands wanting to wander so badly you have to clench them at your sides to keep them honest kiss.
Jamie gently presses me into the shelf at my back, and I hear the soft, distant rattle of pottery. I might worry about breaking something, except that while his kiss feels wild, Jamie’s touch is careful.
“Oh!” a surprised voice says from the other side of the room.
I push Jamie away, both of us breathing hard.
Deonne stands in the doorway, wincing when she catches my eye. Sorry, she mouths.
I panic, my gaze swinging to Jamie. He rubs a hand over his mouth, his eyes downcast.
“I left your box on your station,” Deonne says, blowing right past what just happened. “You’re good to go.” She moves into the room, setting the supply box she was carrying on a low shelf.
“I have to finish cleaning up,” I say to Jamie. “You don’t need to wait for me.”
He hesitates.
“It’s fine,” I insist, giving his back a small push.
“I’ll… see you at home?” he murmurs, the rough sound like a fine-grit sandpaper. My toes curl in my Crocs.
“Yep!” I reply with forced brightness. “See you there.”
He doesn’t look convinced, but it’s obvious that whatever he wants to say, it can’t happen here—not with class long over and Deonne in the studio, much as she seems like she’s trying to play invisible.
I give him another nudge, and Jamie nods, heading for the door. As soon as I hear him leave the studio, I sag against the shelves.
On the other side of the room, Deonne whistles. “Blair.”
I laugh, covering my face with my hands. “Don’t say anything.”
“He’s very cute.”
I peek at her through my fingers. “He’s my brother’s best friend.”
Deonne’s half-cringe, half-smile is back. “Well, that can be a little complicated, sure—”
“And my roommate.”
Now she’s fully smiling, but it has an air of distress. “Uh-oh.”
“Yeah.” I cover my face again. “Tell me about it.”
Deonne’s “uh-oh” follows me all the way home, and I spend the entire ride agonizing over what happens now.
What was that? I kissed him, but he definitely, definitely kissed me back.
Was it a one-time thing? It had to be a one-time thing, right?
A culmination of attraction held to the fire, nothing more.
My brain is still whirring like an overworked computer with all fans firing at full speed when I trudge into the apartment, box in my arms, and find the place in pandemonium.
DnD night. Of course.
They’re in the middle of some kind of calamity, having just—apparently—fallen through a rift that opened in the middle of a field.
“Oh hey, Bee,” Andres says while Logan flickers the lights and yells about a lightning storm. But my gaze has gone instantly to Jamie, who sits on the couch, elbows on his knees, eyes on his phone. The way he’s not looking at me feels as direct as his stare.
“Hey,” I say, aiming a wave at the table as a chorus of greetings goes around.
“What’s in the box?” Andres asks.
I look down, remembering what I’m holding. “Oh.” I flip the lid open to show them. “It’s Jamie’s head.”
“Wow, this is just like that movie,” says Freddie.
“Hocus Pocus,” says Heather.
“No,” Aisha replies.
I close up the box, glancing Jamie’s way again. I have a thousand questions I want to ask him—the loudest, most insistent one being Can we do that again?—but now clearly isn’t the time.
And since I don’t know when the right time will be and have no other reason to be standing here with a head in a box, I walk into my room and shut the door behind me.
I set the box on my desk chair and flop onto my bed, staring at my ceiling. There is no slowing my brain—not as I listen to the DnD crew finish up and clear out, not as I get ready for bed, and especially not when I climb between the sheets with only my thoughts and my racing heart.
I remember my mom telling me a story about how, when she was young, she ruined her VHS of St. Elmo’s Fire by rewinding and replaying Kevin and Leslie’s first kiss over and over until she finally stretched out the tape and made it unwatchable.
I didn’t realize that could happen with real-life kisses.
The first time I kissed Kyle, it was good.
Great, even. But I didn’t play it over and over again in my mind, giggling and kicking my feet.
It’s not like I thought I was in love with Kyle, but I didn’t think my every first I shared with him could be blotted out by a single kiss with Jamie Atwater, of all people.
And yet, later, when I’ve been lying in bed for hours, my brain begins to feel a little bit like that old copy of St. Elmo’s Fire.
I’ve rewound and replayed my kiss with Jamie so many times, I feel stretched out.
My eyes are gritty with exhaustion, my limbs heavy, but I can’t imagine sleeping in this situation.
I pick up my phone, staring at my text thread with Jamie. It is sparse, rarely used. I want to text him now, but I have no idea what he’s thinking. He liked it, right? He must have, or he wouldn’t have kissed me the way he did, like he was savoring it.
I throw off my sheets and climb out of bed. I won’t be able to sleep until I talk to him, and texting is just asking for hours of overthinking. I need to see his face.
But when I make it to his bedroom, I hesitate. It’s only one in the morning, but for once there’s no light under his door. He could be asleep, a rare early night for him.
I shift and back and forth on the balls of my feet, antsy and nervous. I lift my fist to knock, then pull it back, pressing it to my mouth. I turn to leave, pause, whirl back, and lift my fist again, stopping at the last second.
Then his door flies open, and I gasp as fingers close around my wrist, yanking me inside the dark bedroom.
“How long were you planning to stand there?” he asks, but he’s already burying one hand in the hair at my nape and kissing me hard enough that I make a noise of surprise. I’m distantly aware of him shutting the door with his free hand, a quiet click behind me before he presses me up against it.
His teeth come down on my lower lip, and I gasp. “Wow,” I mumble against his mouth.
“Sorry,” he says, releasing my lip.
I shake my head, my next words mumbled between kisses. “No, I said ‘wow.’ ”
“Oh.” He squeezes my waist, exhaling a laugh into my mouth. “Good to know.” He bites my lip again, harder this time, and I make a whimpering noise that is so embarrassing, I feel a flush burn through me all the way to my toes.
Jamie smiles, easing my mouth open under his, and I wrap my arms around his neck, my fingers sliding into his short hair.
When I pull back to say, “I miss your long hair,” he moves his mouth to my jaw, kissing a trail to my ear.
“Me too,” he murmurs against my neck. “Should I grow it out again?” He grins, his teeth scraping along my skin.
I swallow, and he pauses with his mouth on my pulse, which is hummingbird-quick. “Yes,” I manage to choke out, my voice weak. I slide my hands under his shirt, feeling his hot skin against my palms and the hard ridges of muscle ROTC has painstakingly carved into him over the last year.
He makes a low sound, and heat flashes through me. My fingers curl, nails pressing into his skin.
Jamie sucks in a surprised breath. “Jesus.”
“Sorry,” I whisper, retracting the claws.
“No, that’s okay.” He leans in, putting one hand over both of mine, trapping them beneath his shirt. “I kind of like it.”
I exhale a laugh. “Freak.”
He grins, burying his face in my neck. He pulls me close, his chest rising and falling rapidly against mine. Then I feel his hand move beneath my shirt, and I suck in my stomach in surprise.
Jamie knows what my body looks like. He’s seen me in my bathing suit, and not just once or twice but many, many times over the years.
When puberty hit, I popped like a corn kernel.
I was the first person in my grade to get boobs.
I was eleven when Mom had to start taking me shopping in the women’s section because I’d far outgrown the clothes for kids my own age.
(A mortifying experience. I spent most of middle school dressed like an office manager.
I once showed up to school wearing the same shirt as one of our administrators.)
Needless to say, Jamie is well aware that I’m fat. As he squeezes my bare waist, he presses his hips into mine, and I can feel that he finds my body attractive.
“Just a warning,” I mumble against his mouth as his hand trails higher, slow and deliberate, like he’s relishing in the feel of me. “I’m not wearing a bra.”
Jamie freezes, his grip on my waist tightening. I giggle at the ticklish feeling, squirming away from him.
Jamie braces his arm on the door, resting his forehead against his fist, his eyes closed. “Jesus.”
“Was that too much?”
He turns to blink at me, shaking his head, already reaching to pull me back to him. “No, Blair, that wasn’t too much. Are you kidding me?”
“I don’t know,” I say with a laugh, guiding his hands beneath my shirt again.
“I just—” He stops, his breath ghosting against my mouth. “Fuck. I think about you all the time.”
It’s a miracle I manage to stay upright as he says this. “I think about you too,” I say.
“Yeah?”
“More than I should.”
Jamie stills, and when I get a look at his face, I know I’ve said the wrong thing. It’s a reminder that whatever is happening between us is a bad idea, and now I can’t shake the sensation that there is someone else in the room with us.
“Blair—”
“I won’t tell him,” I say. “Not in the worst moment of our worst fight.” The callback to our original deal, the one we made on the other side of this wall, is meant to reassure him. He can trust me to stay quiet about this, just like everything else.
Sawyer never has to know.
“What?” Jamie says, going rigid.
“Sawyer. I won’t tell him about this.”
It’s not like anything between Jamie and I could work long term—I’m moving out soon, and he’s going to EmTech.
Even if that weren’t a factor, Sawyer is and always will be.
Besides, it’s absurd to think this is anything but physical attraction, forced to a head by constant proximity.
There is nothing for us beyond whatever this is.
Jamie draws away and confirms my unspoken words: “Right.”
“So we can—”
“No, I think—” He steps back, his hands dropping to his sides. “I think this was a bad idea.”
I stare at him. I can’t even be upset, can I? I was thinking those exact words myself. This was a bad idea. But my body goes ice-cold anyway.
Somehow I manage to scrape out a steady, “You’re right. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
His throat moves as he swallows, and something passes through his expression. Maybe regret.
Probably, definitely regret. I’m feeling the same right now.
“I’ll go,” I say, reaching for the door.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I let that get out of hand. I thought—”
“No, it’s totally fine. Let’s pretend it never happened.”
Jamie makes a sound that I think could be a sigh, but when I glance at him one last time, his expression is unreadable. He just nods soberly as though we’re splitting a bill, or cleaning up a mess, or team-carrying a heavy box.
“Okay. Good night,” I whisper.
He catches the door before I can close it, drawing in a breath. But all he says is, “Good night, Blair.”
The sound of my name skates along my spine, leaving goosebumps in its wake. I’m trembling by the time I slip back into my room and drop into bed. I’m exhausted, but my body hums like a live wire—desperate, disappointed.
By the time I finally doze off, the first rays of sunlight are peeking through my window.