I hold up a hand in silent surrender. “I’m not.” Today was way more fun than I ever thought volunteering would be. Laney—the sweet, quiet, twelve-year-old—actually opened up to me and told me about her new foster parents. She said they seemed nice, and their house was decent.
She said it in a way that made it seem like she’s been through so many things that my brain could barely process, and she’s six years younger than me. It made me truly look around that room at kids—cool, smart, funny kids—who weren’t being taken care of.
It broke me. “I just want to help.”
“No.” He opens the car door. The rain has finally started to die down.
“No?”
He climbs out of the car but doesn’t slam the door like I expected. He crouches down to look at me. “Go back to your fancy house in your way too expensive, ridiculous car, and forget I live here.”
My eyes narrow in his direction. “Now who’s being judgmental?”
His gaze seems to soften only slightly. “Like I said, Grayson. We aren’t friends.”
With that, he closes the door, and I watch him climb the stairs up to his apartment. Then, I smile.
Because yeah. Yeah, we are.
TEN
My hands are dirty from the lead as I sketch along the creamy paper in front of me. I’m totally, blissfully lost in my own world until I hear a familiar annoying, deep, rumbly voice from behind me. “Not bad.”
Fuck.
I sigh as my hand stops moving along the paper. “No. This is not a thing.” I drop the pencil and turn to face my new stalker, apparently.
He smiles at me with his big, dumb handsome face, standing there with his imposing body and then studies what I was working on alone in the art room before first period starts. I like getting here early.
Or I did before I found out my new friend apparently does too.
“Go back to your part of the school.”
His grin only widens. “Aw, now. Why can’t we just get along? Huh?” His blue eyes sparkle with annoying mischief. “I’ll gladly share my part of the school with you.”
I shift uncomfortably on the stool I’m sitting on, not sure how he makes me squirm like he does. I don’t know him. I don’t know much about him. And yet . . . I can’t seem to stop thinking about him since he gave me a ride a few days ago. “Go. Away.”
“You say that a lot. It’s going to start hurting my feelings.”
I roll my eyes at his over-the-top ridiculousness. “Yeah. I do that.”
“Come on. Admit I’m totally growing on you.” I try to ignore his handsome face and the way his blue eyes shine with a contentedness that unnerves me.
“You’re a pest.”
He’s about to say something I’m sure will irritate me, judging by the playful look on his face, but he’s interrupted.
“Grayson?” We both quickly look toward the door as Ms. Holler, the art teacher, walks into the room, her heels clicking on the tile floor. “That is you, sweetie. How are you?”
I cock an eyebrow in his direction, mouthing, “Sweetie?”
He grins and walks toward my favorite teacher. “Yeah. Long time, no see, huh?”
She looks saddened by that as she nods her head. “It has been. I’ve missed you around here.”
What? Around here? The art room? He’s smiling, but it doesn’t seem as real as it did a moment ago. “Yeah, I’m sorry about that. Football. Basketball. Honor Society. All that shit.”
She should scold him for his language like she does me and everyone else, but she doesn’t. Her face falls even further instead. “I know.”
What the hell is happening? “Well, I should go. It was good seeing you, Ms. Holler.”
She waves at him, and the fucker winks at me before he makes his exit, and I’m left wondering what else I don’t know about him. Which really irritates me.
She’s still smiling as she sits down at her desk. “I’ve missed him.”
“Grayson Lancaster?” My tone is full of disbelief because I have no idea how this cool-as-shit art teacher could have any connection to Mr. Golden-Boy Jock.
“Yes.” She looks at me in confusion.
“You taught him? He was in art classes?” I can’t picture it. The guy screams meathead, not artist.
She smiles fondly and then nods her head, walking to me. “I did. But not in high school. I sometimes forget you weren’t here then.”
I never forget that. I’m honestly not sure which is worse—the shitty public schools I was in before I met Rhys and Blair that barely could afford heat, let alone art supplies, or this fucking hoity-toity rich-kid school that has everything a kid like me would never dream of. Including top-of-the-line art supplies and a kick-ass teacher who actually gives a damn about my skill.
I go back to sketching. “I can’t imagine him and art going together.”
She just shakes her head at me, observing my drawing with her keen eye. “He was insanely talented. I was really disappointed to not see his name on my register his freshmen year or after that.”
“Grayson?” I ask again. I jerk my thumb back over my shoulder toward the door he just walked through. “The massive meathead in the letterman jacket?”
“Come on now, Rhett,” she chides. “I thought you were better than labels and all that stereotype crap.”
I feel ashamed because Ms. Holler is the only bright light in this damn school, and damn if I want her disappointed in me. “I am. I just can’t picture it.”
She looks over my dark sketch that absently started as just a girl but has transformed into the friend who I’ve been missing like crazy lately—Bree.
“His work was always bright and beautiful. He used bold pops of color that were truly breathtaking.” Her finger drags along the lines of my dark and, now I’m slightly worried, dull drawing before she adds, “You two actually complement each other perfectly.”
“What?” My eyes snap to hers, unsure how I feel about her statement.
“It’s the perfect contrast, Rhett. Both are beautiful in their own way. Both bold and strong. His choice of colors and your fearless framing. Just breathtaking.”
I stare at her like she’s insane, but she stares at my sketch of Bree with admiration that I’ll admit makes my chest puff out with pride.
“And who is this mystery girl, by the way? You draw her a lot.”
I do. Because Bree is beautiful, inside and out, and even before our fight or whatever the fuck, I was starting to miss her, knowing this bullshit of growing up and becoming adults was going to rip us apart. Sketching her is easier than talking to her and trying like hell to fix what I broke and can’t explain.
I know I harbor too many secrets from her and from Fletch.
Secrets that shouldn’t even be a thing, but they are for me.
“A friend.”
She smiles in a knowing way. She thinks I’m in love with this girl. Or that I’m fucking her. But it’s not that. Teenage love. Me pining after a girl or something like that from the way she’s grinning and then winks at me before walking back to her desk to wait for school to start.
It would be so much easier if it was.
ELEVEN