Wicked Restless (Harper Boys #2)(42)

I look down at my plate, admonished. I’m struck with an overwhelming sense of shame, but it’s more than that, too. I’m hurt, and I’m jealous, and I don’t understand what any of this is about. Why are we keeping our history a secret? Why am I allowing it?

“So, Lindsey says you two have lived together for three years now. And you’re both…med students?” he asks.

I find myself spending too much time studying him, trying to find the next double meaning so I can be prepared for it. But he doesn’t look up again, instead, going back to his dinner plate.

“She’s my best friend,” I say, smiling at her quickly, genuinely, but returning my attention back to the table in front of me. I don’t know why those are the words I say. There’s a part of me that wants to make sure he realizes what he’s messing with, I guess—that he’s being personal. Lindsey is personal.

“Med school is so hard, and it takes so long. It’s just kind of nice to have someone by your side who gets it,” Lindsey says. I smile at her again, catching Andrew’s eyes as I look away. It’s like he never really stops watching me.

“You two should open your own practice when you’re done,” he says, pushing his plate a few inches forward. He’s done eating, I guess, though his plate is still full.

“I wish,” Lindsey says, picking up a tomato from her salad with her fingers and popping it in her mouth. “But Emma here is all about cardiothoracic. She was hand-picked by the goddess of surgery herself.”

“Linds,” I say, my eyes begging her to stop from saying too much. Why I got into Tech, why I’m studying here with Miranda Wheaton, is a story I don’t really want getting around. My being here looks like pity to the outsider—a lot of things in my life look like pity and charity. But it’s not. I earned my spot here just like every other student.

But Andrew won’t see it that way. He’ll see it as selfish. He’ll see it as selfish because he’ll put it all together, see how it fits with that night and what I let him do for me. And then, quite possibly, he’ll hate me even more.

Andrew grows quiet, his eyes studying both of us as we have our silent exchange. I can tell he’s unsatisfied. To punctuate things, he pulls his hand—the one holding Lindsey’s—up to rest on the tabletop, putting on a show of his fingers caressing against hers, his thumb teasing along the top of her hand and then around her wrist. I hate that I’m looking at it, but I can’t look away.

I’m weak.

“So you’re gonna be a surgeon, huh?”

The way he says it, it’s both innocent and dripping with contempt all at once. I smile despite him, and nod yes. But my lips can’t hold their form for long. I feel his leg slide forward, and I wish for it to be a coincidence, hoping he just doesn’t realize how close he is to me. I say it isn’t so over and over in my head until his foot comes to rest against the outside of mine, his shoe perfectly matched against my bare foot, my toes recoiling as he taps against them twice, a gentle reminder—a threat.

I back away from the table abruptly, my hands gripping the front of the table hard. Realizing how crazy I look, I tap the tabletop twice and grin at my friend before forcing a pleasant look to remain on my face as I answer Andrew’s question.

“I am,” I say, standing and pulling my plate into my arms. The food is delicious, but I wasn’t hungry when I walked in; I’m certainly not hungry now.

“Is that so you can cut people’s hearts out?”

My back is to him when he speaks, and I’m so glad, because I wouldn’t be able to hide my reaction to his words. Lindsey has already interrupted, telling him he’s being gross. She’s laughing, and he laughs with her, apologizing for being graphic. He’s playing along with her, like the words he said were just for morbid shock value. And they were—just not for the reason Lindsey thinks. I keep moving forward, one foot in front of the next as the tear falls down my cheek, thinning as it reaches my chin. I lean my head to the side, rubbing it dry along my shoulder.

“I’m still not feeling well, Linds. If it’s all right with you, I’m going to lie down for a while,” I say from the kitchen, pulling a sheet of foil from a drawer and covering my plate with no intention of eating it later. Two of my favorite things now ruined—pasta and oatmeal cookies.

“Okay,” she says between flirtatious whispers and laughter.

I tuck my dish inside the fridge and walk to my room, closing the door behind me, and letting my hand rest on the handle—feeling like I need to hold it to keep the bad stuff out like they do in those zombie movies. After a few seconds, I loosen my grip and backpedal until my legs hit the edge of my bed, forcing me to sit.

I pull my sleeves low into my palm with my thumbs looped on the inside and bring my fists to my face, inhaling the fabric, searching for any trace of a scent from years ago. I know it’s futile. I know it’s gone; he’s gone. I sent him away.

Another tear is threatening to come, so I run my sleeve along my eyes, wiping what’s left away with my thumb. I move my thumb over my skin twice, imagining it’s Andrew’s thumb the second time. I bring my hands to my lap, and lock my fingers together, imagining one is his, before closing my eyes with a single laugh of pain. My hands look nothing like his and Lindsey’s, and I’m being foolish.