“Let’s go.”
I start scribbling immediately all of the things I’ve heard about Crew over the years. A few of my own assumptions. Considering we’ve never really talked before, I have no clue if any of the things I’m listing are actually true or not.
Which makes me feel kind of bad, but I don’t let the guilt linger for too long.
I’m too busy writing out my list.
Crew, on the other hand, takes his time, scribbling a few words here and there. Tapping his pen against his slightly pursed lips as he contemplates whatever he’s thinking about.
Knowing that he’s thinking about me throws me a little. Makes me hesitate, my pencil still poised upon the paper, my breath lodging in my throat when I glance up to find him watching me. We stare at each other for a beat until he points the pen at me and immediately starts putting something down on paper.
I do the same, writing blindly, not quite sure if I’m actually composing words but hoping for the best.
What did he just realize? Was it good or was it awful? Knowing Crew, it was most likely terrible.
When the timer finally sounds, it makes me jump, my pencil falling to the floor and rolling in Crew’s direction. He stops it with his foot, bending down to pick it up while I attempt to shut off the alarm. I finally manage it at the same time he hands me my pencil, his hand covering almost the entire thing.
Forcing me to touch him when I take it from him.
His fingers slide over mine, electricity crackling between us at the connection, yet his expression is completely neutral. As if what just happened never happened at all.
Again, another figment of my imagination.
“Read me your list,” he demands, his voice smooth as silk as it washes over me.
I shake my head, frowning at the scribbles across my paper. “I need to decipher what I wrote first.”
He holds a single sheet of paper in front of him, his eyes narrowing in seeming concentration. “I’ll go first then.”
I lean back in my chair, my entire body stiff with worry. Pressing my lips together, I swallow hard and wait for the horrible words to come.
“My assumptions about Birdy.” He glances at me over the top of the paper. “That’s you.”
I huff out a laugh, though there’s really no sound. “Right.”
“She’s nice to everyone. She wants people to respect her. To listen to her. Though really most everyone just takes advantage of her.”
I remain quiet, absorbing his words.
“She’s a good student. Smart. She wants teachers to admire her. To think she’s a hard worker. Some admire her too much.” The pointed look he sends my way has me immediately thinking of Figueroa.
Doubtful. But whatever.
“She surrounds herself with a lot of people, but I never see her with actual friends. She’s closed off. Thinks she’s better than everyone else. Judgmental.”
I wince at that particular word.
“…she’s also a prude. A virgin. Not interested in sex. Probably scared of it. Scared of guys. Scared of everyone. Possible traumatic experience in her past?” He lifts his gaze from the paper, his eyes meeting mine. “And that’s it.”
My mind is awhirl with a mountain of things. None of them positive.
I’m not scared of guys. I’m not scared of anyone.
Well, this particular guy makes me feel a decent amount of fear, not that I’d ever admit it.
“That was plenty, don’t you think?” I try to smile at him, but it comes out so twisted, I give up.
“You don’t have an opinion about any of my thoughts?” He raises his brows in question.
“There was never a traumatic experience in my past.”
“Are you sure about that?”
That he would even doubt me…
“Yes,” I say firmly.
We’re quiet for a moment, watching each other, his gaze finally dropping from mine to stare at the scribbles on his paper. All while my mind goes over what he said about me.
Take advantage of her.
Closed off.
Has no friends.
Judgmental.
A prude. A virgin.
Scared of sex.
None of that is true. I have friends. I don’t let people take advantage of me, and I’m very open. I’m not afraid of sex. I’m just not interested.
The only thing that’s true is I’m a virgin. And proud of it.
“Your turn,” he says softly, yet again interrupting my thoughts.
I glance down at the paper in my notebook, squinting at some of the hurried words I wrote. I can’t make out all of them, but here I go.