Chapter Twenty-One
The cafeteria buzzed with movement as I sat at the long, scuffed table with Lindsey across from me.
Her elbows propped on the surface’s edge, eyeing me expectantly.
I was pretty sure she’d asked me a question, though I was too busy thinking about the face August had made when he’d come Saturday night to have heard it.
“We’re going to Charlotte to look for Winter Formal dresses this weekend. You in?” she asked, voice slicing through the hum of teenage chatter.
I unzipped a plastic bag of grapes, their cool skins bursting between my teeth. “I don’t know if I’m going to Formal.”
“Why wouldn’t you go?” Emily leaned in from my left, her blonde hair brushing my arm.
I shrugged, popping another tart grape into my mouth. “No one’s asked me.”
An exasperated sigh came from my other side followed by the sound of a plastic bottle being set down too hard. Andy muttered, “I didn’t know I had to ask my own girlfriend to the dance.”
“You asked me last year—with roses and everything,” I reminded him, voice lilting. I’d meant for it to be a gentle tease, but his jaw ticked, and I instantly knew he wasn’t in the mood to be playful.
He shifted, a familiar stiffness in the way he moved like he had a fresh injury though he hadn’t taken any rough hits at Friday’s game. “Yeah, but that was when we first started dating.”
Paul, a couple seats down, leaned toward Jack and murmured just loud enough for me to hear, “He means before she put out.” Jack grimaced in response.
“I’d like to be asked,” I said, ignoring them.
Andy inhaled deeply through his nose, and chewed on the inside of his cheek. I was pushing him, and I knew I shouldn’t. I could tell he was in pain but it seemed like my usually romantic and playful boyfriend was irritated by something much more than his prick of a father.
“Fine. Lola, would you—” His words died as a forearm laced with prominent veins reached between us, setting a grease stained brown paper bag in front of me.
I looked up to find August’s green eyes searching mine. “You left your lunch in the lab this morning,” he said, voice low with an almost teasing tone that sent a dangerous thrill through me.
August and I rarely texted each other—an unspoken rule between us.
He mostly hated anything that had to do with cellphones—texting, social media, taking selfies.
So, other than the few seconds we shared in the morning as he handed me a coffee before the bell rang, we hadn’t talked since our encounter in his bathroom.
An image I couldn’t seem to get out of my head—the way his mouth hung open as he came.
The corner of August’s mouth ticked upward with a knowing smirk, as if he could see exactly what I was picturing.
I pushed the thought away immediately.
Tracing the bag’s rough edge, I forced my tone to remain even. “Thanks,” I managed, mirroring his curt nod before he melted back into the crowd.
Andy leaned forward. “I don’t like the way that kid looks at you.”
“He doesn’t look at me in any way,” I said, pulling a white styrofoam tray from the bag and popping it open.
Inside, golden-brown french fries nestled beside crisp fried pickles, a small cup of ranch perched at the edge.
The tang of dill and garlic hit me, and I had to bite the inside of my cheek to hold back the smile.
Andy took a swig of his beige protein shake. “Honey, I think I know how guys look at girls better than you do.”
Emily snorted. “Are you scared a misfit is going to steal your girl, Andy?”
He scoffed, but his jaw clenched. “No.”
“Then shut up—you sound insecure.” Emily shot back. Andy’s teammates let out low whistles from the other end of the table.
With a huff, Andy pushed back his chair and grabbed his gym bag from the floor. “I’m going to work out. Enjoy your lunch,” he muttered as he stalked off.
I watched his large form slip between two groups of loitering students, his movements cat-like.
Andy could sometimes move like a dancer—when he was on the football field, or when he was desperate to go unnoticed.
Which made the fact that he was constantly bumping into me feel like a small child begging for attention.
For a brief moment I considered chasing after him, but my empty stomach protested. I hadn’t eaten anything but grapes since breakfast before service yesterday.
Turning back to the table, I reached back into the paper bag and found a cold can of Cheerwine, droplets beading on its surface. Taped with condensation was a yellow receipt, edges damp, handwritten letters scrawled neatly in the top corner: IWYH.
Lindsey tapped her nails on the table, drawing my attention back to her. “So…shopping?”
I bit into a ranch-drenched pickle, the juices burning the roof of my mouth as I spoke, “Yeah, sure.”
Fourth period in the library always felt haunted. Not in the Hollywood-cue-rattling-chains way, but in a quiet, though definitely not alone kind of way—like a shadow that lived in the seams between dusty shelves and settled into every lonely heartbeat that ever sat there.
It made me feel alive to move through it all.
The air tasted of mildew trapped in stiff hardback spines.
Dust simmered under flickering fluorescents.
Weak waves of burnt coffee drifted down the hall from the teacher’s lounge, mingling with the chemical sting of printer toner.
Outside, rain-laden clouds pressed low against the tall windows, turning the world beyond into a churn of dirty dishwater gray.
Mrs. Morgan perched behind the circulation desk, humming along to a crackling gospel station on her tiny radio. She flicked overdue slips apart with a lick of her thumb, each sticky click magnified in the hush.
I sat cross-legged on a wheeled stool, feigning busy work with a row of returned books while my phone lay hidden in my lap, my thumbs flicking over the keyboard.
Come to the library.
Three little dots bloomed almost instantly: Why?
Because I said so.
The dots danced around again before they vanished. I thought maybe he was ignoring me on purpose but then the device vibrated again: Bossy.
A delicious shiver slid down my spine. I stuffed the phone into my cardigan pocket just as Mrs. Morgan looked up.
Tick. Tick. Tick. The clock above the biography shelves dug at my nerves. I’d reorganized the same stack three times by the time the library door whined open.
August stepped inside, dripping rain water and wet-leaf musk behind him. His dark green hoodie clung damply to his form, his rolled-up sleeves, revealing lean forearms. His curls were plastered at the edges, each strand glinting rain-dark. His eyes found mine easily.
For a moment I felt as if I were Jay Gatsby, staring out at that hopeful green beacon. My pulse fluttered to a frantic staccato.
Mrs. Morgan peered over her glasses. “Need help finding something, hun?”
August didn’t break his stare. “Probably.”
My stomach tightened as I shot upright so fast the stool shot out beneath me, spinning itself across the floor. “I’ve got it,” I blurted.
I didn’t give her a chance to interject—not that she would have, the old bat hated getting up—before weaving my way through the shelves, knowing August would follow.
The media room was a shoebox wedged between nonfiction stacks—outdated equipment, boxes of laminating sheets crammed on the floor. The copier radiated a plasticky heat that made my skin prickle. VHS tapes sagged on dust covered metal shelves above.
August ducked inside behind me and pushed the door shut. I whirled, grabbed the front of his hoodie, and yanked him forward. He stumbled in close until his palms fit to my waist, thumbs pressing into the fabric of my white blouse. His chest grazed mine with heavy breaths.
The copier’s warmth seeped through my denim skirt, only adding to the sudden heat in my body as I leaned back against it. He froze, breath husky, eyes dark and focused. I could feel the quick beat of his pulse under my fingertips.
“Jesus,” he murmured, voice rough around the edges. He leaned in, nose grazing my jawline. “You drag your boyfriend around this aggressively?”
I clutched his hoodie tighter, my voice dropping to a hiss. “You brought me lunch in front of everybody.”
He exhaled slowly, thumbs flexing. “I brought you lunch.”
“With little coded love notes attached.” I tried to sound severe, but the words came out laced with amusement.
A crooked smile curved his lips as he leaned back to look at me. “I just want to see you eat something that isn’t green.”
I pressed my lips into a thin line. “Pickles are green.”
“Not when they’re coated in greasy batter.” He arched an amused brow, his hips pushing into mine.
My eyes rolled, busily resisting the flutter in my chest. The copier hummed, as if it approved of the weight being pressed against it.
“Did you eat them?” he asked, voice softer now.
“Yeah.”
That slow, crooked smirk tugged at his mouth. I hated how much I loved it. “Then just say thank you, Sin.”
His nickname hit me low—hot and sudden. I stared at him, breath catching. He studied my lips like he wanted to lean in and insert the words into my mouth, making me taste it.
I exhaled, bracing myself. “Thank you.”
His face softened, no teasing glint, just warmth. “You’re welcome.”
The way the words rolled off his tongue made my chest tighten. As if it felt easy for him to take care of me. I wasn’t sure anyone had ever felt that way about me.
His fingers drifted up to the waistband of my skirt, tracing the seam like he was memorizing its curve. My skin tingled under his touch.
“Hey, so I was thinking, since you’re doing so well in biology, that we could skip the study session this week and just hang out? With my friends?” he asked hesitantly, like he was suggesting we donate blood for fun.
My mouth twisted up in consideration. “Why do you want me to hang out with your friends so bad?”
He gave a half hearted shrug. “I think you like them. Maybe even more than your own.”
“Are you trying to convince me to trade in my friends for yours? What’s next, you want me to trade my boyfriend in too?” I teased, though I regretted the words as soon as I said them.
He swallowed. “Your boyfriend’s nothing to me, Lola.” He sounded calm but the pitch of his voice held something urgent. “I keep telling you that.”
Instead of relief, a hollow twist settled in my chest. I nodded. “I’m fine with hanging out with your friends.”
His shoulders eased, eyes going wanting. “Do your best to talk to Penelope first, okay?”
Guilt coiled in my gut. I couldn’t meet his gaze. “Do you believe me?” I whispered. “That I didn’t know what Emily was planning?”
Without hesitation he brushed a thumb along my cheekbone, warm and firm. “Of course I do.” He paused, thumb smoothing my bottom lip where my teeth were pressing. “The others might need convincing though.”
My throat tightened as I forced a lazy grin. “I think you underestimate my ability to charm people.”
He gave me that sad, knowing smile that made him look centuries older. Then his gaze dropped to my mouth. Slowly—torturously—his thumb pressed into the center of it, forcing it open.
“No, Lola,” he murmured, voice husky. “I do not.”
My heart pounded in my ears. The plastic tang of copier heat mixed with the faint cedar of his hoodie and something so electric it set my blood roaring.
August pressed a soft kiss to my jaw before slipping out of the media room.
The rain finally stopped just before school ended, leaving the parking laugh cast in an oil-slicked glimmer. I caught Penelope just as she was about to fold herself into the backseat of a dented green Civic with Angelica and Ben.
“Hey, Pen! Wait up!” I shouted, cutting through the crowd.
Her eyes went sideways to Angelica, who was leaning against the passenger door with her arms crossed, watching me the way a cat watched something it hadn’t decided to kill yet.
“I wanted to tell you I’m sorry,” I said as I finally reached her.
“August told me you didn’t know she was going to do that,” she said quietly, picking at the fraying cuff of her sleeve.
“I didn’t,” I said quickly. “But it wasn’t right, and I’m sorry it happened to you.”
She nodded. “Are you coming back on Friday?” she asked, and something in her features opened up a little.
“I’ll have to ask August.” I said.
“He’s a nice guy,” she said, her chin lifting slightly.
“I know.” The words came out harder than I meant for them to.
“I don’t know what’s going on between you two. But if you hurt him, I will…” She trailed off, thinking. I pressed my lips together, waiting while she thought of a good threat. “Ruin your favorite purse, or something.” she finally finished.
I laughed, “That’s fair.”
She smiled then, wide enough to expose all her teeth, and it changed her whole face—brighter than all that black eyeliner suggested it could go. Penelope smiled a lot for someone who wore spikes on all their clothing. I could see it then: why August had wanted her close to him at some point.
I pushed the thought back down before it could settle anywhere it wasn’t supposed to.