Tutoring the Player (Campus Wallflowers #1)(52)

I flip it open to see what she means. I thought that was just something she made up so Violet wouldn’t know we were messing around, but inside is the sketch she was working on in the tree house.

“I finally got your mouth right,” she says with a proud smile.

Behind it are a few more, one of me in my hockey gear, another of me sitting at a table a lot like the one from the physics lab. She drew my profile like she was sketching it the way she saw it in class. And finally, one of my back with the tattoo for Mark.

My chest tightens.

“Do you like them?” Her smile falters, and she sounds unsure. Probably because I still haven’t spoken as I stare down at the pages. It’s like she captured all the things that make me, me, in a few drawings.

“You can just toss them or whatever. I just wanted you to see them, so you didn’t think I was creepily sketching pictures of you and tucking them away like some sort of obsess—”

I cut her off by bringing my lips down on hers. She squeaks her surprise and then flings her arms around my neck.

“I like them,” I say.





22





DAISY





I don’t have a tree house at home, but my equivalent happy spot is the formal living room on the first floor. Bookcases line one wall, overflowing with textbooks and a few fiction titles. It’s a dark room off the west side of the house with old furniture in like-new condition. The only person that ever used this room was me. And it seems that hasn’t changed.

With my sketchbook and phone, I sit cross-legged in the oversized leather chair. When I was younger, I’d hide away in here. My parents would be upstairs in their offices or in the TV room, laptops in front of them as they caught bits and pieces of their favorite shows.

They seem to be working less since I’ve been home but existing in our own corners of the house is par for the course. I like having my own space, but too much of it is lonely.

I’ve been home for six days, and if tomorrow wasn’t Christmas Eve, I’d be nervous that I’d die of boredom. Our traditional activities include Violet’s family, as well as Grandma and Grandpa Johnson, coming here. We’ll do our annual ham dinner, followed by exchanging presents. Aunt Serina arranges everything, but we do it in Flagstaff because she thinks it feels more festive here with the colder weather.

There isn’t snow on the ground yet, but there’s a chance of it tonight. I pull back the curtain to stare out into the dreary winter weather. Cold air seeps through the glass.

I haven’t talked to Jordan, but I’ve been thinking about him. Today especially. It’s the two-year anniversary of his friend’s death, and I know whatever he’s doing, it’s with Mark on his mind.

Mom steps into the room and smiles at me. “Do you want some headphones?”

I glance down at my phone. Out of habit, I’ve started listening to music anytime I’m sketching or studying.

“No, I’m good.”

Her brows pull together in confusion.

“I’ll turn it down,” I say.

“Thanks. Your dad is grading final exams.”

I forgot the one house rule—silence. If I had been the kind of kid that wanted to get in trouble, I could have easily accomplished it so long as I did it quietly. Sometimes this house feels more like a library than a home.

When I’m alone again, I pick up my phone and turn off the music. Trying not to overthink it, I text Jordan. Hi. Hope you’re having a good break. Thinking of you today. X

I warm up dinner, rummage the liquor cabinet, and take my food and drink back to my comfy chair.

Jordan FaceTimes me as I’m settling in. My pulse races as I answer.

“Hey,” I say as his face fills the screen.

Eyes hooded, beanie pulled down over his ears, he smiles lazily back at me. “Hi, sweet Daisy.”

“I wondered why you were calling instead of texting, but I think I see now.”

His eyes practically close when he smiles. I’ve seen Jordan drunk enough to know that he’s had way, way more than usual.

“Where are you?”

“Someone’s house. I don’t remember whose now. We started drinking early, bounced around a few places.”

“Are you doing okay?”

“Yeah,” he says, but it doesn’t sound very convincing. “What are you up to?”

“Quiet night in.” I lift my glass of vodka and Sprite to show him.

“Cheers,” he says and brings his beer up to the screen. Music starts up in the background, and the lights go off in favor of a flashing red, blue, and green disco ball.

Someone yells something, and a chorus of voices call, “For Mark.”

“We’ve been doing a shot every hour,” he explains.

“Since when?”

“Fuck, I don’t know. Noon.”

“Maybe you should switch to water.”

“You’re right. I should hydrate. I’m gonna have a wicked hangover.” He struggles to get up, but he navigates through the house until he reaches the kitchen. He fills a glass and chugs it. Then, he goes right back to drinking his beer, but well, I tried.

Instead of going back to the party, he goes outside. It’s harder to see him, but it’s quieter.

His breath is visible as he speaks. “I head back to Valley on Thursday.”