The Anatomical Shape of a Heart(16)

“Why?”

“Because the head of the anatomy department said I couldn’t draw in the lab. No reason. Probably because she didn’t want a high school kid running around underfoot. Or maybe because I’m not pumping thousands of dollars of tuition into her school.”

“Oh, man. That sucks. Is there anything you can do to change their mind?”

“Probably not. All I know is that the art show I’m entering is a competition for scientific art, and most of the participating students will likely be engineering and chemistry and microbiology geeks, and ninety percent of them will be guys, and if I don’t enter something with precision and detail that will blow the judges away, I’ll end up losing to a piece of shit Photoshop manipulation of some crappy fractal pattern.”

“Guess I see now why you’re having a bad day.”

“Don’t underestimate your part in it,” I said drily before pasting on a half-hearted smile for the customer who was ready to check out. Leaving Jack at the magazine rack, I headed to my register and quickly scanned a woman’s two-tiered mini cart of organic groceries and imported cheese.

When I was finished, he stepped up to the counter. “I’m really sorry.”

“You said that already.”

“But I still mean it,” he said with a hopeful, wide-eyed look.

Those dark eyelashes should be illegal. Sometimes Heath wore eyeliner when he went out, and Jack’s lashes were nearly as dramatic. He blinked, and it hit me what was so striking about them.

“Distichiasis.”

“Huh?”

“Your eyelashes. A genetic mutation that causes double rows of lashes.”

“Oh. Yeah.” A hesitant smile lifted his lips. “My mom used to say I had Elizabeth Taylor eyes, but I prefer to think of it as an X-Men mutation. You know, more badass.”

I was a sucker for medical oddities. So unfair that his was exotic and alluring. Do not look at his eyes. To be honest, I couldn’t look at any part of him and stay mad, so I deserted him at the counter and went back to the magazines, picking a stack off the floor to set it back in its cubby. He didn’t get the hint.

“It was Dr. Sheridan who turned you down at Parnassus?” He picked up another pile and put it in the wrong place.

“Yes,” I said, moving the stack down to the second row.

He got out his phone and typed. “I’ll fix it.”

“Fix what?”

“Just give me a couple of days. I’ll get you into the anatomy lab.”

“Excuse me? And just how do you propose to do that?”

“I have ways. Don’t ask.”

“Oh, no. I’m asking.”

“Just trust me.”

I laughed. “Why in the world would I do that? I’m probably flagged as some kind of potential criminal in the SFPD database, and now my mom suspects I’ve crossed into Troubled Teen territory. Don’t pull me into your drama. I don’t need your help.”

“Beatrix?” a voice called from behind me.

I spun around to see Ms. Lopez’s head peeking out from one of the aisles. “Is everything okay?”

“Yes, fine.”

She eyed Jack with suspicion. “Five minutes until register cash-out.”

I gave her a thumbs-up before rushing to straighten the magazines. “Please don’t get me in trouble with my boss,” I whispered hotly to Jack.

He made a frustrated sound. “What’s your number? Let me fix this for you.”

“Are you kidding? The police are probably monitoring my phone.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“You’re ridiculous,” I mumbled.

“Adorably ridiculous?”

“Criminally ridiculous.”

“I’ll take it.” He smiled and stuck a finger out to playfully poke the knot of my tie. He had large boy hands, all sinewy and latticed with faint blue veins, and long, slender fingers. More beautiful bones. I desperately wanted to trace my fingers over them—which was insane. And stupid.

“Please don’t stand so close,” I murmured.

“I can’t help it. I’m strangely turned on by the tie and those Sacagawea braids.”

My checks caught fire. Was he making fun of me? And why hadn’t he moved?

“Beatrix?” Ms. Lopez called out again.

“Just a moment,” I shouted back. “I can’t talk anymore,” I told Jack, stepping away with a nervous twist in my stomach. “You need to go.”

“Digits?” he said, holding up his phone.

“Absolutely not.”

“Email address?”

“Yeah, it’s Bex at why-won’t-you-leave-me-alone dot com.”

“I’ll message you online, then.”

I shrugged as nonchalantly as I could. “It’s a free country.”

“You’re a mean one, Mr. Grinch,” he said, backing up toward the doors. They opened with a whoosh. He pulled up his collar. “I’ll fix it for you. Hand on my heart, Bex Adams, I will fix it.”

8

I stared at my phone, which was propped on the pencil ledge of my drafting table. Any second now, it would morph into a rabbit and I’d know I’d been dreaming. But, no, it remained a phone, and if I needed further proof I was experiencing reality, I got it from the rapid-fire drumbeats of Heath’s metal blasting through the floorboards; he didn’t work at the vet’s office on Mondays.