Playing (Inked Hearts 2)

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.