Leah on the Offbeat (Creekwood #2)(41)

“Not at all.”

“I’m kind of surprised.”

“Really?” She smiles slightly.

My cheeks heat up. “I don’t know. You always said your dad was so strict and traditional.”

“No, he is. But he’s cool about that. I mean, I don’t know what he’d say if my brother or I came home and announced we were gay—” She cuts herself off, blushing.

And then neither of us speak. I fiddle with the remote control. Abby stares at it for a moment.

Then her phone starts vibrating, and she snaps back into herself. “It’s Simon,” she says. She meets my eyes while she answers it. Then she slips back to Caitlin’s bedroom, the phone to her ear.

For a minute, I just stare at the ceiling fan. My phone buzzes a few times. Sometimes I think texting is the single worst technological advancement in history. Because yeah, it’s convenient. But in moments like this, it’s like someone’s poking you repeatedly, going hey hey hey.

Of course it’s Nick, king of casual. Hey how’s it going down there? Just wondering if you guys have any cool plans.

Bet there’s lots of college guys there, heh. Abby probably won’t miss me too much.

Has she mentioned me? lol

I stare at the phone. I don’t know what to say. Like, holy shit. I feel bad for Nick. I really do. But this is so far above my pay grade, I don’t even know where to begin. So I give up. I set my phone down and dig around for my sketchpad and pencils instead. I need to get into my zone. That happens sometimes when I’m drawing. It’s like the world stops existing. Everything disappears, except the point of my pencil. I can never quite explain it to people. Sometimes there’s a picture in my head, and all I have to do is translate it into curves and shading. But sometimes I don’t know what I’m drawing until I draw it.

I settle back onto the couch and start sketching—and instantly, my body calms. When I draw, it’s almost always fandom stuff. People on Tumblr seem to like it.

But today, I draw a box.

Not a box—an ATM.

I draw it like it’s an arcade game, surrounded by Skee-Ball and claw machines. I make dollar bills spurt out of the cash dispenser and soar through the air. I draw Abby, gasping joyfully, like she just won the jackpot. Then I draw myself beside her, hands clapped over my mouth.

It’s the first time I’ve drawn Abby in a year and a half. It’s the first time I’ve drawn myself since then, too.

“What the heck are you writing?” Abby says. I look up to find her smiling expectantly. She sinks back onto the couch and sets her phone on the coffee table. “I love how you’re just sitting here giggling to yourself.”

“I’m drawing.”

“Can I see?” She scoots closer.

I tilt the sketchpad toward her, and she bursts out laughing. “Oh my God. Is that us?”

I nod.

“We’re playing the ATM!”

“And we’re winning.”

“Of course we’re winning. We’re awesome at this.” Her lips tug up in the corners. “God. You’re so talented, Leah. I’m jealous.”

“Whatever.” I stare down at my sketchpad, letting my hair fall forward to hide my smile.

“I’m serious. You could do commissions or something. People would totally pay for your stuff.”

“No they wouldn’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because.” I shrug.

Because I’m not good enough. Because there’s something off about every single drawing. There’s always one ear higher than the other, or too-short fingers, or visible eraser marks. It’s never perfect.

“I swear, you’re so much more talented than you realize. I’d pay for this in a heartbeat.”

I blush. “You can have it.”

She inhales. “Really?”

“Sure.” I tear the page out, carefully, and hand it to her.

She peers at it for a moment, and then hugs it to her chest. “You know, I still have the other picture you drew of us.”

Everything freezes: my heart, my lungs, my brain.

She looks up at me. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Okay.”

She pauses. Shuts her mouth. Opens it again. And then she says quietly, “Why did we stop being friends?”

My stomach flips. “We are friends.”

“Yeah, but last year. I don’t know.” She bites her lip. “I kept trying to figure out what I did, or if I said something to upset you. It’s like, you were my best friend here for a while, but then you just stopped talking to me.”

God. There’s definitely some tiny invisible asshole punching me in the lungs. And winding up my heart to hyperspeed, and using my stomach like a trampoline. I can’t make my thoughts line up. All I know is that I don’t want to talk about this. I’d rather talk about literally anything but this.

I pause. “I didn’t mean to.”

“So what happened? Did I do something?”

“No, it’s just,” I begin—but it dies on my tongue.

It’s just that she was funny. And beautiful. And I felt more awake when I was around her. Everything was amplified. We’d be waiting by the buses, or she’d be talking about her old school, and I’d catch myself smiling, for no reason at all. I had a dream once where she kissed me on the collarbone. Softly and quickly—barely a thing. I woke up aching. I couldn’t look at her all day.