Put Me Back Together(8)

Lucas Matthews was in my class.





3





I woke up with a start and sat up in bed, breathing hard. My entire body was covered in a thin sheen of sweat, even though it was a chilly winter morning. I kicked the covers to the foot of the bed and lay back down, covering my face with my hands. I’d been having a dream about Lucas. And not just any dream. A sexy dream. An incredibly hot and sexy dream that had left my body aching and entirely frustrated. I groaned and buried my face in my pillow. Only I could manage to be embarrassed even when nobody else was watching. I was actually blushing over a dream, in my empty bedroom, with windows so frosted over no one could see in.

I was hopeless.

Staring at the delicate patterns of frost swirling over my windowpane, I debated the matter. So I was attracted to Lucas. It wasn’t a big deal. I was nineteen years old, after all. These feelings were totally natural. Like Em had said, it wasn’t like I was the only one. He was a gorgeous guy and I was just having a normal reaction, that was all. No problem.

Except it was a huge problem.

I’d been attracted to guys before, obviously: celebrities, handsome strangers, unattainable classmates I’d never actually spoken to. But my attraction had never reached this kind of intensity—how could it when I barely knew the guys? I’d only ever felt like this once before, and the memories that came flowing in when I thought about that time, that guy, were ones I wanted to forget. Because that time my feelings had led me so far astray I’d barely found my way back. In fact, I wasn’t entirely sure I had, though I’d been trying to for six years.

Brandon Tomko. The boy who’d ruined my life and the lives of so many others. The boy I hadn’t seen face-to-face in years. The boy I was trying so hard not to think about, especially now as the date came creeping steadily closer. My eyes drifted to the calendar hanging on my wall. I hadn’t circled the date but it still jumped out at me as though it was in 3D. March twentieth. Just a little less than a month away.

Now was the time for keeping a low profile, slipping under the radar, staying safe. Now was the time for survival. Now was not the time for Lucas Matthews.

I sat up and swung my feet over the edge of the bed, feeling irritated with myself. I’d spent years making sure I didn’t find myself in this exact situation, and yet here I was, and at the worst possible time. I kept to myself for a reason. I avoided making friends for a reason. And boyfriends? Not on your life. I knew what I could handle and what I couldn’t. I knew what I was good at and what I’d failed at so miserably that I should never try it again. Ever.

Tying my thick hair up into a bun, I walked into the bathroom and turned on the shower. Steam filled up the room, fogging up the mirror so I couldn’t make out my own face. I stared at my wobbly, indistinct reflection. Who was I kidding, anyway? This was Lucas Matthews I was talking about. The guy every girl on campus was mooning over and dreaming of. The basketball player. The Lothario of Queen's University. What made me think he didn’t already have a girlfriend? Of course he did. With dimples like that, how could he not?

As I climbed into the shower and began soaping up my skin—a little more roughly than usual—I realized how I’d been completely blowing this situation out of proportion. Just because I was having sexy dreams about Lucas did not mean he was having sexy dreams about me. Just looking down at my body confirmed this. I was no model, that was for sure. Emily was the stereotypical image of perfection, the prom queen type, the hot one. I was the one who ate ice cream for dinner three times a week and whose face was round like the moon. Okay, my boobs weren’t terrible, and everybody always complimented my light caramel skin tone—being mixed race had its perks—but my black hair was always frizzing and flying every which way, my thighs I didn’t even want to talk about, and then there were the glasses that made my already big brown eyes look frighteningly enormous. I wore contacts whenever I could, but they irritated my eyes.

Getting out of the shower, I stepped back into my room, towel in hand, and stood in front of the full-length mirror.

Was this the girl Lucas Matthews fantasized about?

I didn’t think so.

Then I thought about the disastrous outfit I’d been wearing the night I met him.

I didn’t have a chance in hell.

It was funny—and a little depressing—how much this cheered me up.

I resolved to put Lucas out of my mind and to concentrate on doing my work and getting through the winter. I didn’t think it would be that hard. I’d been avoiding him pretty successfully for the last week—avoiding eye contact in class, making a beeline for the door as soon as the lesson was over, and staying off campus as much as possible. It wasn’t really that different from my usual routine. Forgetting about Lucas was going to be a snap.

After wolfing down a quick breakfast of leftover pepperoni pizza and trying unsuccessfully to coax the cat out from under my dresser—he’d abandoned the couch for this better hiding place a couple of days ago—I got ready to face the frosty day. I didn’t have a class until modern American lit at eleven thirty, but I was eager to get to the studio and do some painting. A little more than eager, maybe. More like desperate. Nothing calmed me the way painting did, and I was in dire need of some calming down. I glanced up at the canvases covering my living room wall.

I favoured landscapes, darkness, and obscured faces. Every painting was a variation of the same theme, the same subject. All grouped together like this, my paintings could be overwhelming and a little disturbing—that was why I didn’t like to let anyone into my apartment—but I didn’t see them that way. These paintings were me. I poured myself onto the canvas every time. I knew the feeling that had caused every single brush stroke and I was glad to have them out of me. Better on the canvas than inside my heart.