Chapter 12
SAM
The studio smells like graphite and warm wood, sunlight spilling through a row of loft windows and casting crisscrossed shadows across ten wooden easels, each holding a blank canvas. I settle into my spot, adjusting my canvas to catch the right angle of our model, Claudia—who looks like a human pretzel but is actually a carefully choreographed pose. Left leg folded against her torso, right arm draped behind her head, ribcage stretched taut like a harp string pulled too tight, every line deliberate, every tension intentional.
I squint one eye shut, measuring proportions with my thumb against my pencil. The habit is muscle memory now—distance, angle, balance—things I register before I even consciously think about them.
First day with a long pose always makes my nerves itch, not because I don't know what I'm doing, but because I care way too much about doing it right.
"Remember, class—this is a ninety-minute pose," Professor Harlow announces, silver-rimmed glasses flashing as she moves between the semicircle of easels. "Structure first. Details later."
The charcoal glides across the paper in a sweeping line, confident and unhesitating, catching the curve of Claudia's spine in one continuous motion.
Willow slides into the station next to mine, late as usual, dropping her portfolio with a thud loud enough to earn us a glance.
"Sorry," she mouths, not sorry at all. Her boots squeak as she sets up. "Overslept. Again. Did I miss anything life-altering?"
"Just the usual lecture about structure and suffering," I murmur, eyes never leaving my canvas.
She snorts, boots squeaking again as she adjusts her easel. "Riveting."
Professor Harlow strides between our stations, her voice carrying throughout the studio. "Begin with the skeletal framework: locate the torso's axis, then anchor the limbs with straight lines. Think of the body as architecture—bones are the beams, muscles are the walls."
I press harder with my charcoal, reinforcing the spine's subtle curve before laying in the shoulder girdle, my strokes quick and economical. Years of practice have taught me when to trust my hand and when to slow it down.
I block in mass and weight, already thinking three steps ahead, already anticipating where the shadows will fall once the structure is locked in.
"This lighting is literally homicidal," Willow grumbles beside me, erasing furiously. "I can't see her left hip at all."
"Try squinting," I suggest, demonstrating with one eye nearly closed. "Makes the shadows pop."
"I'm squinting so hard I might as well be asleep."
The room settles into a focused hush, punctuated only by the soft scratch of charcoal and the occasional cough. I slip into the rhythm easily—look up, look down, mark, adjust, repeat. It's automatic, meditative.
My fingers darken with charcoal dust, and I absently swipe hair from my face, smearing a streak of graphite across my cheek without noticing.
I glance over at Willow's canvas and catch her smudging a winged shadow beneath the model's jaw. There's a softness to her work I've always admired—she sees gradients where I see angles, emotion where I see structure.
"You thinking what I'm thinking?" she hisses, catching my look.
My brow arches. "That this is a cry for help?"
"No, you absolute walnut. Look at her collarbone—it's literally perfect. I'm switching to portrait next semester. I swear."
"You said that last week about sculpture."
"A girl is allowed to evolve," she says, flipping her hair dramatically and immediately smearing charcoal along her neck.
I bite back a laugh and return to my canvas, refining the ribcage with measured precision. The foreshortening is tricky, but not unmanageable—I adjust the compression, subtly shifting the angles until the form starts to breathe again instead of collapsing in on itself.
Professor Harlow pauses beside me, and I feel my shoulders tighten out of instinct more than fear. Her critiques are surgical—painful, but precise.
"Ms. Westbrook," she says, formal as ever. "Notice how her scapula dips when she extends her arm. Capture that tension before you flesh it out."
I lean in, narrowing my focus, and soften the clavicle edge while deepening the shadow beneath it. "Like this?"
She hums, thoughtful. "Better. The body speaks through tension. Find it, exaggerate it just enough, and the drawing will breathe."
The second Professor Harlow dismisses us, I'm already packing up my supplies, charcoal sliding back into its case with purpose. My plan is simple and glorious: straight to my studio, paint until my brain goes pleasantly numb, and Uber something vaguely nutritious for lunch like the responsible adult I pretend to be.
That plan lasts exactly three seconds.
Because just as I sling my bag over my shoulder, Willow's fingers suddenly coiled around my wrist like some kind of tactical friendship bracelet.
"And where do you think you're going?" she asks, eyebrows arched so high they're practically touching her hairline.
I tug at my arm, but Willow's grip remains unbreakable. For someone who looks like she could be blown away by a strong gust of wind, she's got the grip strength of a competitive rock climber.
"To my studio, where else?" I answer with all the nonchalance I can muster, which is approximately zero percent.
"Again?"
"Uh, yeah?" I give her my best 'duh' expression, the one that makes my face look like I'm solving calculus while smelling something funky. "My next class isn't for another two hours. I'd rather work on my piece for the exhibit than sit around campus doing nothing."
"But it's lunchtime, Sam." Willow releases a sigh that would make a deflating balloon jealous. "You should at least come eat with me. Also"—she squints at me—"why have you been actively avoiding the cafeteria the last few days?"
I open my mouth.
Close it.
Open it again.
"Er... 'cause I—uh—"
The truth is, I'm avoiding the cafeteria because I'm avoiding Eli. Wow, what a plot twist in the Samantha Westbrook's life story. Avoiding the love of my life instead of stalking him from behind potted plants like I've been doing since forever. But after what happened the other night—me slapping his stupidly handsome face—I just don't have the guts to face him and see the hatred in his eyes if he sees me.
God, why, why did I slap him!
Now he's only going to distance himself from me even more. As if there wasn't already enough space between us to fit the entire Milky Way galaxy and then some.
Willow sighs loudly, clearly unimpressed with my internal meltdown. "You can tell me the reason while I eat," she declares, already tugging me forward. "You are coming with me. Whether you like it or not."
She drags me toward the door with alarming strength.
"I'm hungry," she adds. "And you know what happens when I'm hungry."
"Yes," I mutter. "You become a food-deprived monster."
"A reasonable food-deprived monster," she corrects. "With opinions."
Resigned, I let her haul me toward the cafeteria, silently begging the universe for Eli to be literally anywhere else on campus. Please. Anywhere. The gym. The rink. A remote mountain monastery.
"I just hope he's not in there," I mutter under my breath.
"What was that?"
"Nothing. Just... praying that they have something edible today."
When we arrive, the cafeteria is as crowded as a sample sale for designer shoes. We grab our trays and join the line. Willow immediately begins stacking food on her tray.
"Are you expecting company? Like, maybe the entire football team?" I ask, gesturing at her tray, which now requires both hands to carry.
"Don't judge me," she replies, somehow managing to add a brownie to the precarious tower. "My metabolism is my superpower."
I settle for a turkey sub and a bottle of water.
After paying, Willow scans the room before nodding toward a booth in the far corner of the cafeteria—a little hidden cove that's partially obscured by a large fake plant.
"Perfect," I whisper, relief washing over me. If Eli does come in, he won't see me tucked away back there.
Not that he ever looks for me.
We settle into the booth, and I immediately position myself facing the wall, which gives me a perfect view of the cafeteria entrance in the reflection of a nearby window. You know, just in case I need to duck under the table or fake a seizure if a certain hockey captain walks in.
"So," Willow is already halfway through her burger, chewing with the focus of someone defusing a bomb. "Spill."
I pretend not to hear her as I take a small bite of my sub, my eyes constantly darting to the window reflection, searching for that familiar head of blond hair and those vibrant green eyes that have haunted my dreams since I was ten.
Yes, I know I said I'm avoiding him, but I didn't say I didn't want to see his stupidly handsome face from a safe distance. I'm pathetic, not blind.
Willow snaps her fingers in front of my face, making me jump. "Hello, earth to Sam. You've been staring at that window like it owes you money for the past five minutes."
"Okay. Fine."
I sigh in resignation, knowing that Willow won't let this go.
She's like a terrier with a chew toy when she gets curious. I take a deep breath and start telling her everything.
"So, you know how I sometimes... happen to be at the rink when the hockey team practices?" I begin, trying to make it sound casual and not at all like I specifically rearrange my entire schedule around Eli's practice times.
"You mean how you stalk Elijah Deveraux like it's your part-time job?" Willow asks through a mouthful of fries.
I glare at her. "Do you want to hear this or not?"
She mimes zipping her lips and gestures for me to continue.
I continue telling her everything that happened.
About the rink. About watching Eli skate himself into exhaustion because I was worried he'd hurt himself. About the two girls trying to sneak into the locker room while he was showering. About stopping them. About him catching me there.
About the accusations.
About the slap.
By the time I finish—carefully omitting anything involving his parents, because that's not my story to tell—Willow is staring at me like I just confessed to robbing a bank.
Her jaw is actually hanging open.
"Wait," she says slowly, holding up a finger. "Let me get this straight."
I brace myself.
"You slapped the captain of the hockey team," she continues, "the love of your life, after he accused you of cockblocking him, implied you were stalking him, and almost exposed himself to prove a point—"
"I did not ask for that part," I interject weakly.
"—after you saved him from becoming an unwilling nude photoshoot victim," she finishes. "And you are the one avoiding him and feeling guilty?"
She stares at me really hard.
"Are you for real?"
She leans forward, eyes blazing. "Elijah Deveraux should be the one apologizing to you and worshipping the ground you walk on after what you did for him."
I almost choke on my sandwich. "Okay, worshipping the ground I walk on might be a little dramatic."
"Nuh-uh," Willow wiggles her forefinger left and right like a metronome marking the rhythm of her disapproval. "Worshipping is the correct response. Can you imagine if you hadn't been there? Those girls could've taken photos of him naked in the shower. That would've spread everywhere. His life would've been a disaster."
She shudders. "A full-blown scandal."
Her words reignite a spark of anger I'd been trying to smother under layers of guilt and embarrassment. Those girls... they were going to violate Eli's privacy in the most disgusting way, and what had I done? Given them a stern talking-to and let them walk away.
"You know what? You're right," I say, sitting up straighter. "Those girls got off way too easy. I should have marched them straight to campus security instead of letting them scurry away like the little roaches they are."
For someone who claims to love Eli, you sure did the bare minimum to protect him from actual predators.
"What if they try again?" I continue, anger building. "What if they target someone else next time? I basically gave them a slap on the wrist for what could be considered sexual harassment!"
Willow nods vigorously.
"Exactly! And then Eli has the audacity to accuse YOU of the exact thing you were preventing? That's some next-level ungratefulness right there."
"But he didn't know—"
"Did he give you a chance to explain?" Willow cuts in, pointing a curly fry at me accusingly. "Or did he just jump to the worst possible conclusion about someone who has never given him any reason to think she'd do something that disgusting?"
I bite my lip, considering this. He hadn't given me a chance to explain. He'd just assumed the worst and attacked.
"I guess... he didn't," I admit slowly.
"So why are YOU the one feeling guilty and hiding? You did nothing wrong, Sam. In fact, you did everything right. You protected someone who didn't even appreciate it, and then when he verbally attacked you, you defended yourself."
The more I think about it, the more I realize Willow has a point.
Yes, slapping him wasn't ideal, but after what those girls were planning and his horrible accusations... maybe my reaction wasn't so unreasonable.
As if reading my mind, Willow adds, "And don't feel bad about the slap. Sounds like he had it coming, acting all high and mighty while standing there in a towel about to flash you."
I can't help but laugh at her description, though the memory of nearly seeing more of Eli than I'd bargained for sends a flush of heat through my body that has nothing to do with embarrassment.
"So what do I do now?" I ask, taking another bite of my sandwich.
"You stop hiding, that's what. You did nothing wrong. If anything, he should be coming to you with his tail between his legs, begging for forgiveness." She pauses, a mischievous smile spreading across her face. "In fact, I think we should tell everyone what a hero you are. Maybe put up some posters: 'Sam Westbrook: Protector of Hockey Players' Dignity.'"
"Don't you dare," I groan, but I'm smiling.