Craft (The Gibson Boys 2)

Sighing, I find a spot on the opposite wall. “That about sums it up.”

“Okay, I knew you were all flirty with each other. But was it more than that?”

Yeah. No?

Dragging my gaze to hers, I just shrug.

“Do I need to make his life hell?” she asks. “’Cause I can. I have connections. I can even get him on Homecoming Committee and that’s just about equivalent to ordering him into the pit of Hades.”

“Don’t do that,” I sigh again. “It’s fine. We had a little fling. I guess. I don’t know but it’s over now so let’s try to be as normal as possible.”

She sits where the cupcakes usually go. “Either he’s a terrible lay, which I’m inclined to toss out based on looks alone, or he’s a dick. I feel like that’s probably not true either.”

“Guess you’re as confused as I am.”

“You honestly don’t know what happened?”

I mull this over for the eighty-ninth time. At least it’s a little numb now, a little gift from above that I expect to wane by the time I leave school today. Or, more likely, as soon as I see him.

“I know this,” I offer. “I knew better than to do this with a guy like him. In his defense, he never treated me badly. In mine, he made it way too easy.”

My lashes flutter in a desperate attempt to hide the tears that surge at my lash line. I can’t look at Tish. I can’t look at the computer. I just sit like a bump on a log, saying a quiet prayer that I can manage myself like the grown woman I am.

“Honey, it would be easy for anyone to lose themselves in that man.” She gets situated on my desktop. “And he’s so cute with you. I’ve seen it myself.”

“Yeah, well, it doesn’t feel so cute this morning.”

“I bet not,” she frowns. “I have a meeting with Principal Kelly in ten. I might just suggest Mr. Gibson to help with the floats for the parade.”

“You do that.”

“I will.” She lifts up, the wood creaking as she moves. “I’m here if you need me, Mariah.”

“Thanks.”

I wait for her to leave, until I hear the main library doors shut, before shutting the door to my office and crying my eyes out.

Lance

My pen hits the desk.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

It’s been the longest morning of all time, partly because I didn’t even make it to bed last night, let alone sleep. Partly because I know she’s just a floor above me and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it.

Around four o’clock this morning, I was in my car, engine started, a spiel sitting on the tip of my tongue. I sat there for fifteen minutes, trying to talk myself out of going to her house and just spilling my guts.

I brought my lunch in a little brown bag, figuring I could keep myself busy and not be tempted to go to the library. No such luck. I look at the clock, watching each minute click by. With each number that rolls over, my heart gets a little crazier. With each second that ticks, my feet become a little more desperate to move. Not until ten minutes after the normal time I head upstairs do I spy a book that doesn’t belong to me on the table under the window.

Jumping up so fast I crack my knee on the desk, I hold it in my hands like a prize. Stamped on the bottom of the title page is LINTON UNION HIGH SCHOOL. Bingo.

I take the stairs two at a time, berating myself for wasting time by thinking I was capable of not coming up here. We’re still friends. This is what we do. It would be abnormal if I didn’t go check on her today. I’d be a dick not to make sure she’s okay.

The main library doors swing open. I’m across the burgundy carpet in half the time it usually takes.

How I’ll keep my hands off her, how I won’t just break down and end this insanity is beyond me, but it’s a risk I have to take.

Her door is closed as I approach, which isn’t unusual. The little apple cutout that hangs near the window is cockeyed and I make a note to fix it for her when I leave. Grabbing the handle, I push forward and take a step with it … and run right into the wood.

I flick the handle again.

It’s locked.

Glancing over my shoulder, I confirm I’m alone. I test the handle again, peeking in the blinds to see if I can see her. It takes three different angles to confirm: she’s gone.

My back hits the wall, a poster of the new hit young adult novel comes unattached on the top and falls partially to the floor.

This must be what it feels like to have your heart sliced into little pieces and fed to you. The tinge of bitterness in my mouth is enough to make my stomach recoil.