Only an hour to go.
And I’m not ready.
Shit. Where the hell is my laptop?
It’s not on my desk. Or in my closet. Or anywhere under the bed.
There are footsteps in the hall. Then a knock on my door.
“You looking for this?” Brendon’s voice flows into my room.
“My laptop?”
“Yeah. Can I come in?”
“Sure.” We’re doing normal. We’re friends. And friends can hang out in each other’s rooms.
It’s not like I’m thinking about him on my bed.
Naked.
It’s not like I’m obsessed with his dirty drawings.
And the smell of his shampoo.
And all the lines of ink that wrap around his arm.
My heartbeat picks up as he opens the door and steps inside.
He looks the same as always. Tall. Broad. Stoic.
He’s wearing black jeans and a black t-shirt. It hugs his shoulders. It offers a peek of the roses tattooed to his chest.
I can’t decide what saying I want on his chest.
Live so you can live.
Remember your mortality.
Seize the night.
Nothing comes from nothing.
Save me and I’ll save you.
That’s a hopeless fantasy. No one is saving me. You can’t fix the ways I’m broken.
But he…
He could love me anyway.
It’s possible. In theory.
He moves forward. Sets my laptop on my desk. “Forty-five minutes to go.”
“Yeah. I should prepare.”
“You need to prepare?”
“Sort of.” Technically, no. But I want to be ready.
“Did you eat dinner?”
I stare back into his dark eyes. “I’m too nervous to eat.”
“You need to eat something.”
“It’s my body. Not yours.”
“We’ll do this downstairs.” He scoops my laptop back into his arms and takes a step backward. “I’ll heat up dinner.”
“Brendon. I don’t have time—”
“You have forty-five minutes. Go shower. Change into something comfortable. I’ll have your food ready.”
I glare at him.
He glares back.
“You really are bossy and annoying.”
“You just figure that out?”
“I’m usually the one on your side when Emma complains about you.”
“That’s because you’re not around me twenty-four seven. Give it a few more weeks. You’ll get sick of me.”
Fat chance. Being around him all the time only makes me want him more.
He’s so close, but he’s so far away too.
I hate him for bossing me around. So what if his intentions are good? Nobody tells me when to shower or eat. Especially not someone who’s withholding the kinds of demands I want. “I’m only going along with this because you’re holding my laptop hostage.”
“Tell me something I don’t know.” He takes another step backward, into the hallway.
I follow. Watch him move downstairs and set up the dining table.
There’s my laptop, closed, untouched.
This is the perfect chance to invade my privacy.
But he’s keeping his eyes to himself.
I push the thought aside as I move into the bathroom. We need normal. And me telling him I’ve seen his sketchbook—not normal.
It’s an excuse, sure, but it’s true.
There’s a plate next to my computer. An almond butter and jelly sandwich cut into tiny squares.
The perfect snack.
At least he’s being…
Ugh, I hate him more for being sweet.
His eyes go to the timer on his cell. “Fifteen minutes.”
Fifteen minutes until I set my fate for the semester.
That’s nothing.
I take a seat. Try to avoid the lure of the delicious sandwich.
The bread is toasted. Warm.
Strawberry jelly is spilling from its sides.
And almond butter too.
Maybe just one square…
I pop it in my mouth, chew, swallow. It’s perfect warm, sweet, gooey comfort food.
But that half-smirk on his face—
No, I love that too.
He’s so beautiful.
I could get lost in his eyes. Dark. Like a strong cup of coffee.
Shit. I’m staring.
I force my attention to my laptop. School website. Login. There. I’m ready to register. And I can even handle it.
“Ten minutes.” His voice is soft. Sweet. The Brendon only I know. “You nervous?”
I nod.
“You never seem nervous.”
“Never?”
“You’re the most put together person I know.”
“No. I just seem that way.” I bite my lip. That’s already too much. If he knew the truth, that I’m held together by pretending and antidepressants, that I’m destined to think about all sorts of ugly ways to hurt myself…
“You never talk about it.”
“What about you?” I turn toward him. Stare into those dark eyes. “You never talk about anything that bothers you.”
“True.” There’s no admission in his voice. Only an awareness of the facts. He stares back at me. “You’re thinking something.”
“Nothing important.” I stare at the computer screen so I won’t have to take his gaze. It’s too much. It’s picking me apart.
“You love writing.”
“Is that a question?”
“But you don’t want to take a creative writing class.”
“Accurate.”
“Why?”
Because my subconscious takes over when I’m writing. I can’t stop myself from spilling all my ugly secrets on the page.
If I share that with people, they’ll see the seams.
They’ll tug at the stitches.
And then all of me will spill out.
My guts will be on the floor.
And everyone will run away.
Nobody knows I have depression. That I’m on drugs. That my thoughts go to dark places when things get bad.
Nobody knows I’m broken.