Wicked Restless (Harper Boys #2)(45)
No purple.
I drop the knife and wipe my hands on a towel, then completely lift the lid, kicking the side of the can to move debris around just enough that I can see if my sweatshirt is buried.
It’s not.
“Hey…uhm…Linds?” I call for my friend, prepping myself to ask her if she’s seen my sweatshirt—if she’s the one who saved it from the county dump or if someone else did—when I march by the front door and do a double take at the clothes hanging from the hooks nearby. Her jacket. My jacket from last night, which I know I hung there without seeing anything else. But this afternoon…there is something else. My sweatshirt is hung on the last hook.
I pull it free and smell it, noticing it doesn’t smell like it’s spent the night in the trash. It also doesn’t smell like Andrew.
“Yeah?” Lindsey answers behind me. I grip my sweatshirt and take a quick breath before I turn to face her.
“My sweatshirt…” I start, waiting to see if she has a reaction to it, like an oh yeah, I saved it for you kind of reaction. She doesn’t, which means…
“You know, I heard Andrew say he liked purple. He mentioned it—that it’s a nice color—when I wore this. You should wear it,” I say, the words just coming out one after the next before that little gatekeeper in my head has time to tell me to stop it, because this is a really bad idea. And it’s mean. I’m using Lindsey.
She smiles and takes my sweatshirt into her hands, and my insides rush with conflict. She’s taken it, though, so I walk the line on the other side—the one that’s not being nice—and keep going.
“You know, I always loved this one. You should wear it more,” she says, carrying it back to her room.
I love it too. That’s why I wore it the first time I went out with Andrew. It’s Roxy, and has little diamonds on the front that are both tough and feminine at the same time. That’s what I wanted to be—tough and feminine. Not broken and frail and unable to do things like run, or skate, or date a boy. I should wear it more, especially now that my new go-to sweatshirt is forever ruined with wine stains. Except now, it reminds me of this Andrew—Drew—which makes me love it less.
I hover in the kitchen, nibbling at my sandwich while Lindsey changes, and when she comes out in my shirt, I compliment her, ignoring the loud voice kicking me from the inside and telling me I shouldn’t do this. I’m not being fair to Lindsey, and I’m stooping to Andrew’s level. But I let her walk out the door anyway, and I sit quietly in my chair and finish my sandwich, playing out the scene that’s about to happen in my head—she’ll show up, he’ll see her, and he’ll think of me.
* * *
Part of being the prized student is being available to shine the spotlight on your benefactor at a moment’s notice. Miranda Wheaton is winning an award, and she called me two days ago to ask if I would introduce her before her presentation and speech. She’s kind—but there’s also a very rigid thread that runs through her that’s not to be messed with. When she asks, you say yes. That’s the unspoken rule, and I learned it quickly when I backed out of something freshman year and found myself fighting to get back into her circle.
I’m special, and I still had to fight. There is no gray with Miranda Wheaton—everything is black and white. You are either in or you’re out.
I need to stay in.
I also need to get the projector working. I’m sweating. I sweat when I panic. I’m panicking, too. Even though I’m not the one really getting an award, I am the one sitting up here on my knees in front of the small table, unplugging and replugging the same cord to the computer—expecting the screen to just randomly appear one of these times—despite the fact that I’m not doing anything different.
Come on. One, two, three…work!
I lean forward and rub my head. I should have worn my hair up. Right now, my heavy locks are only making me hotter. I twist my hair into a knot at the base of my neck, jabbing a pencil through the middle of the bun to secure it in place. I go back to the stubborn computer and punch a few buttons. Here I want to cut into people’s bodies for a living—and I can’t even get a PowerPoint to show up.
“Hey, mind if I maybe…just…”
A pair of very large, very masculine hands reaches in front of me, and when I look up I’m greeted with startling-blue eyes on a chiseled face and just enough of a beard to make me want to touch it…just once.
No, no…don’t touch it, Emma!
“Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you, but I was in the back…over there?” He nods over his shoulder, to the doorway where two other equally handsome men are leaning, watching me flail. I’ve been flailing in front of them for nearly an hour. On my knees. I think maybe I swore a few times, too. Oh my god! “You’re…kind of struggling, huh?” he says. I blink at him, twisting my lips before I look back at the computer in front of us both. I pull the cord out and plug it in again.
“This is my only move,” I say with a shrug, looking back up at him again. “That’s all I’ve got.” Yep, those are definitely blue eyes. Not blue-gray like mine. His are a better blue, like…sky maybe?
His laugh comes from somewhere deep inside his chest, under the tight silvery gray shirt and slightly darker gray tie that he’s wearing on his chest like a superhero emblem. I laugh internally at my observation: my hero in a suit and tie.