8
He picked me up at seven thirty after I’d spent a humiliating amount of time picking out what to wear. I’d settled finally on the sweater and jeans I’d been wearing all day because lord knew what a person was supposed to wear to a sports game, anyway. Besides, I didn’t have to look nice. This wasn’t a date after all.
I repeated this to myself a lot, both in my head and out loud to the cat as he lay purring on my pile of discarded clothes.
This. Isn’t. A. Date.
Although it did kind of feel like one when he rang the buzzer and I met him at the door. His hair was slightly wet, as though he’d just washed it, and I could smell his cologne as he held the door open. His blue pea coat, which made him look a little like a sailor, was smartly buttoned. He’d shaved. He looked like a shiny new penny, while I looked like that crumpled five-dollar bill you found in the bottom of your pocket after it had gone through the wash.
Great.
I wondered if he could tell that no guy had ever come to pick me up before, that no one ever buzzed my apartment, not even Emily, who had her own key. I wondered if he could tell how incredibly nervous I was, and then I realized that he probably could, since I was still standing on the upper step near the door, staring at him, without having said a word. Although it’s also worth pointing out that he was standing two steps below me staring back, and he hadn’t said a word, either.
It was as though we were both in some kind of dream state where time moved more slowly and all social conventions, like conversation, were suspended.
His eyes swept over my face languidly and then moved upward to my hair, which I’d shoved into a messy bun on top of my head.
“I like your hair like that,” he said, and actually reached out as though he wanted to touch it, but I caught his fingers just as they reached the level of my face and gently pushed them away.
No. This was not a dream I wanted to have.
“Are we late?” I said, jogging down the stairs ahead of him and heading for the street, effectively breaking our joint daydream.
He easily caught up with me and took my arm, placing it over his. And I let him, because it was cold, and…well, because it felt nice. But that was okay, because it was the type of thing friends did, wasn’t it? I suddenly realized I had no idea what guys and girls who were friends did.
“Well, are you ready to attend a friendly game of basketball, Hero?” he asked, steering us down the sidewalk toward his car. “Because this is a friendly night, the type of night I would only share with a friend. And I want you to know I can only ever be your friend. I think it’s important that we both understand that. Don’t you think so, friend?”
So apparently he’d heard my whole “friend” tirade loud and clear.
I glared up at him as we reached his car, a battered red Civic with a big dent in the passenger’s side door.
“I definitely think so,” I said with more confidence than I was actually feeling as he let go of my arm and stepped toward me, causing me to lean back against the door.
I saw a twinkle in his eyes as he moved forward, placing his hands against the car window on either side of my body. I felt my breath catch in my throat and a thrill rise up from my belly as the front of our coats brushed against each other and he leaned in.
“That’s good,” he said into my ear, my cheek growing warm just from the knowledge that his was centimeters away. I could hear the smile in his voice. “Because I wouldn’t want there to be any confusion.”
He pulled his face back and looked me in the eye. Our faces were lined up perfectly for a kiss, and I felt my body betraying me, my face moving toward his without my permission, my senses awakening with something new.
Desire.
My lips trembled, though I tried to still them. As much as I wanted him, I was also terribly afraid. This wouldn’t be just any kiss. It would be my first.
I held my breath, waiting, as his eyes dipped to my lips and then his face changed, his eyes zipping back up to mine with a question in them that I couldn’t read. Suddenly he was all business and movement. He pulled me toward him—more like a jerk, really—and yanked the car door open, then ran his hands roughly up and down my arms, as one would a child who had stayed out too long playing in the snow.
“Cold, isn’t it?” he said with forced enthusiasm, and gestured for me to get in as he ran around to the driver’s side.
“Sure is,” I replied as I climbed in and buckled my seat belt. I was still in a little bit of shock, all my emotions jumbled and jumping and disorderly.
As he drove us toward the Athletics Centre, keeping his eyes firmly glued to the road, I tried to console myself with the fact that I’d been right. Lucas and I were just friends. Because when he’d had his chance, he’d come this close and changed his mind. It was a good thing I’d put the kibosh on the whole boyfriend idea that morning. It was smart of me, really. Wasn’t I so clever? Wasn’t it so wonderful to be right?
Except that it wasn’t.
Being right had never felt so awful.
The gym was crowded and bright and loud. Having never been to a game, any game, before, I hadn’t known what to expect, but the noise was the biggest surprise. I wondered how the players could stand it. I thought to ask Lucas, but I didn’t much feel like talking to him right then, and he didn’t look like he was up for a discussion, either. In fact, he looked downright ill.
“Hold on a minute,” he said as we walked through the gym doors. They were the first words he’d spoken since our moment by the car.
He’d stopped in his tracks just inside the doorway, and as I walked back toward him I saw him swallowing hard, as though he was trying to get down a particularly large pill.
“You’re not going to throw up, do you hear me?” I said as I pulled him toward the bleachers. In the short ten minutes it had taken us to drive here and walk into the building, the awful feeling inside me had morphed into a simmering rage that I didn’t question or examine in any way. I was certainly in no mood to rub his back as he hurled.
It seemed like we were a little late after all, because the game had already started and the bleachers were full. Lucas held back, keeping himself out of sight of the crowd as I scanned the stands for two seats together, finally spotting them on the left side near the top. Looking over at Lucas again, I found him staring intently at the floor. He seemed to be doing everything he could not to glance at the game itself.
“Snap out of it,” I said, clapping my hands in front of his face. “You’re fine. It’s fine. Come on, let’s go.” I grabbed him none too gently by the sleeve.
Apparently rage turned me into the type of person who barked orders and was obeyed, because he didn’t resist. Or maybe he was just so out of it that following me was all he could handle. Whatever the reason, we were about halfway up the bleachers and I was still towing him by the arm when I realized everybody around us was looking our way. I faltered on the stairs, jarred by all those eyes, but Lucas didn’t skip a beat. He swiftly passed me, his head bowed and hands plunged into his pockets, and reached the seats I’d been aiming for a full minute before I got there.
I let out a slow sigh as most of the heads turned back to the game, though I did notice a few girls still staring.
We might not actually be on a date, but every person within a twenty-foot radius definitely thought we were.
Just perfect.
To distract myself from the realization that my first friendly activity with Lucas had been such a colossally bad choice, I fiddled with my bag, pulling out what we would need to get through the game. Then I turned to Lucas, still chock full of fury—because, of course, all of this was entirely his fault—until I took in what was happening to him.
He was sitting in his seat with his back straight as a board and his eyes closed, his hands curled into fists on his thighs, his mouth clenched closed so tightly that I could see the muscles in his jaw bulging. He was breathing hard through his nose—too hard. He looked like he was about to explode.
“I can’t be here,” he hissed through his teeth. “I have to get out of here. I have to go, now.”
I would have agreed, except going right then would have meant getting him down the stairs in this state with a couple of hundred people watching. He was in no condition to weigh in on the matter, but I was pretty sure making his panic attack public knowledge wasn’t something Lucas would want. Lucky for him, I was pretty much an expert on panic attacks, having had one at least once a week for as long as I could remember.
Grabbing his left fist, I quickly opened up his hand and placed it on my chest, just below my collarbone. His eyes flew open and I nearly smiled despite myself. At least I had his attention.
“It’s okay, Lucas,” I said in my most soothing voice, focusing my eyes on his frantic ones. I placed my hand over his. “You’re going to breathe like me. Nice and slow, okay? Close your eyes and breathe.”
His chest continued to shudder at first and I worried that it wasn’t working. My next best idea was to put his head between his knees, but considering how tall he was he would have probably ended up knocking skulls with the guy sitting in front of us. Worriedly, I reached up with my free hand and cupped his cheek, rubbing my thumb gently over that clenched jaw muscle until I finally felt it ease. I continued to whisper to him as his breathing slowly returned to normal, not even really hearing what I was saying. I knew I’d always found it comforting when my father had done this for me. I’d just never done it for someone else before. It was sort of nice, being the strong one for a change.
As the attack subsided, I let go of his cheek, but he didn’t move his hand. I was keenly aware all of a sudden of how close his palm was to my breasts and of the fact that only a few moments ago a number of girls had been avidly watching us. Were they still watching now? I nearly turned to check, but then Lucas opened his eyes.
“Almost lost you there,” I teased. He blinked at me as though he was coming out of a long sleep. Then I watched his eyes lower to where his hand was still pressed to my chest. A grin pulled at his lips.
“If I’d known this was the reward I would get, I might have come to more games,” he joked and I threw his hand back at him, swatting him hard on the arm while I was at it.
“Do you still want to go?” I asked as I watched him glance down at the game still going on below us. Somebody had just scored and the crowd around us cheered.
“After all that?” Lucas said, taking a deep breath. “Hell, no.”
“Good,” I said, handing him one of the sketch pads from my lap and two pencils. “Let’s get started.”
“What’s this?” he asked, giving the pad a quizzical look.
“I told you, we aren’t here to watch the game,” I said. “We’re here to sketch.”
This was something I did all the time when I found myself stuck in a social situation I couldn’t handle. Art was my passion, but it was also a really great smokescreen. When you were drawing, people thought twice about bothering you or even talking to you. The trick was to look really absorbed and focused. I took a sketchpad with me everywhere I went, just in case. You never knew when you might need to disappear.
“This is speed sketching,” I informed him, “so don’t waste time trying to make it perfect. The idea is to get at least twenty solid sketches in by the end of the night. You’ve got to just pick something and start drawing. And we’ll be moving around to get different angles.”
I’d expected a little bit of push back, but Lucas surprised me. He flipped open the pad and set it on his knees, his pencil poised, and when I said, “Go,” he went right to it, sketching a player running for the hoop. I guessed it was the challenge that piqued his interest. He was an athlete after all. He was used to playing to win.
Even though sports bored me to tears, there was plenty to draw in the gym. I got in a really good sketch of two girls gossiping while their boyfriends watched the game, and another of a player sitting in the front row with his head bowed, a towel over his neck. Then it was time to move. I’d thought this part might be tricky, everybody’s attention drawn back to us again as we blocked their view, but after the first few moves it seemed to be working in our favour. The crowd had lost interest in keeping track of us and nobody was looking our way.
At my elbow, Lucas sketched diligently. Since he was taking Introductory Fine Art II, I knew drawing couldn’t be entirely foreign to him—they never would have let him take the class otherwise. He frowned as he drew and chewed on his lip. It was adorable, and I couldn’t help but picture the little boy he had been once, with that same look on his face as he built a sand castle or aimed for the basket. When he looked up at me, surprised to find me watching him, I realized it was time to move again and I hadn’t drawn a single sketch.
“Maybe we should split up this time,” I said, my cheeks reddening. “I don’t see any two seats together.”
Big, fat lie.
“Whatever you say, Hero,” Lucas said with undeniable amusement.
But before I could squeeze past Lucas to get to the stairs, I found my route blocked by a pair of long, thin legs ending in spike-heeled boots. They looked like the kind of heels you would use to stab someone through the skull. Looking up, I realized that description was right on the money, because from the look she was giving me, I was pretty sure she would have stabbed me if she could.
“Hey, Lucas,” Stabber Girl said in a sickly sweet voice. “Who’s your friend?”
I would have gladly scurried away at that moment, but Lucas took my hand and gently pulled me back into my seat, and there was something about the feeling of his fingers in mine—and the fact that he wasn’t letting go—that kept me there. Besides, Stabber Girl was still standing in my way.
“Hi, Monica,” Lucas said blandly, his attention mostly remaining with his drawing. “This is Katie.” I plastered a smile on my face as I looked up at her, but she barely glanced at me now. She only had eyes for Lucas.
“When did you start coming to the games again?” Monica said, twirling a finger around a strand of her auburn hair. “You should have told me. I would have saved you a seat.”
From the way she said the word “seat,” I was pretty sure she wanted to find hers in Lucas’s lap. I was wondering how familiar this girl was with Lucas and his lap, when all of a sudden she fell forward and landed directly in it, her short skirt fanning out around her thighs and her arms looping around his neck.
“Oops,” she said perkily as she pressed her ample breasts against his chest. I had to reach up and snap my mouth closed. This girl’s moves put Sally’s to shame, and that was saying something. “I guess I tripped.”
“I guess you did,” Lucas said.
He let go of my hand then, and I couldn’t even blame him. What guy wouldn’t with those long legs and that cleavage and all that hair right in front of him? But I did notice that he didn’t put his arms around her. He was gripping the edge of his seat as she wiggled around in front of him, trying to keep his balance.
“Are you sure you don’t want to come over and sit with Taylor and Danny and me?” Monica said as she smoothed the front of his shirt with her fingers, each of which ended in a perfectly polished nail. “You can share my nachos.”
Share my nachos? That had to be code for something dirty.
“We’re fine right here, Mon,” Lucas said, moving his head to the left so he could see around her pouting face. “Thanks for offering, though.”
I heard the tone of dismissal in Lucas’s voice, but apparently Monica did not. She lingered for a few more minutes, licking her glossy lips and nuzzling Lucas’s neck until she seemed to realize she wasn’t going to get the reaction she wanted. With a hmph, she hauled herself to her feet and folded her arms over her chest.
“Well,” she said before she turned away, “you have my number. Remember you can call me any time you want, day or night. I’m always available.” She gave Lucas one more suggestive look before walking slowly down the stairs on her precarious heels.
I looked over at Lucas as he tore off the crumpled page Monica had sat on and started on a new sketch without missing a beat. I hoped he didn’t think we were just going to go on as if that hadn’t just happened, because, frankly, I wasn’t that mature.
“Old friend?” I inquired, my tone innocent.
Lucas looked away from the court, his eyes following Monica as she moved through the crowd. “No,” he said. “Monica and I were never friends, that’s for sure.”
I guessed it served me right for asking. All of a sudden I was the one who felt like vomiting. The only thing that stopped me was the entirely disinterested look on Lucas’s face as he watched Monica walk away and the memory of his hand in mine.
A few minutes later we both got up to move. I watched Lucas move down three rows and take a seat on the stairs, and then picked a random seat for myself, trying to shake the image of Monica in Lucas’s lap out of my mind.
I was already folding my pad open to a fresh page when I heard the person next to me squeak, “Katie?”
Emily was sitting in the seat beside mine with an enormous soda in her hand, the straw in her mouth. A guy with light brown hair and nice blue eyes sat next to her, looking from my sister to me with a stunned expression I’d seen a hundred times before. Twin sisters tended to attract attention. “What is happening right now?” Emily said, her expression a cross between surprise and suspicion. “Is this a class assignment or something?”
I leaned over my sister and proffered my hand to her date. “Twin sister, Katie,” I said by way of explanation.
“This is Marty,” Em said dismissively, gesturing at him without looking his way.
“Matt,” he corrected, and Em shrugged. I groaned inwardly. It was typical Emily behaviour to get a guy to take her to some event, buy her ticket and snacks, and drive her there and back only for her to forget him before the sun rose the next day. If she had already forgotten his name, Matt here was a definite goner, and here he was looking all starry-eyed. Poor bastard.
“I’m just doing some sketches, for practice,” I explained, holding up my pad. I hoped Em wouldn’t notice Lucas in the crowd, but just then he stood up and moved down a few more stairs. He looked over and gave me a wink before sitting back down. My sister’s eyes widened with delight.
Oh, crap on a stick.
“You’re here on a date with Lucas?” she whispered excitedly into my ear, loud enough that Matt and the entire row of people behind us could hear.
“Wait, Lucas Matthews?” Matt said, giving me a suddenly far more appreciative look.
“Great, Em,” I said. “Thanks so much.”
“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me,” she said. “Is he a good kisser? Does he have a long tongue? Tall guys often do, you know.”
Though I didn’t look, I could feel the row of people behind us leaning forward to hear my answer.
“Lucas and I are not on a date,” I said forcefully. “Remember, I told you, we’re nothing to each other. Well, not nothing. We’re friends. That’s it.” Em nodded at me her nod that said, I don’t believe a word of this.
“Weren’t you the one that told me he was the school Lothario?” I demanded.
“What’s your point?” she asked. “I saw the way he looked at you at The Limo. Every Lothario has his downfall. ”
“Well, let’s just say I’m not it,” I said and Em’s expression suddenly turned serious. “Lucas has a girl in every class, in every Res, in every club.” And apparently in every gym, too. “You really want me to go for a guy like that? You should be warning me away from him, not pushing me into his arms.”
I wasn’t really angry with her, it was my irritation with that whole Monica moment that was doing the talking, but Em took my words completely seriously.
“You’re right,” she said with a firm nod. “If he doesn’t want you, then screw him! In fact, I’m going to give him a piece of my mind.”
Both Matt and I caught her before she flung herself out of her seat.
“No, no,” I said. “Lucas and I are friends. It’s okay. We don’t want to kill him right now.” I thought of how different my response might have been if I’d run into her an hour before and had to bite back a grin. “I’ll let you know if that changes, though.” I nudged her with my arm and she gave me a reluctant smile of agreement, but I could still see her frowning in Lucas’s direction.
The crowd cheered again as the yellow team—that was us, right?—got another basket. Going by the clock on the wall, it looked like the game was about to end. Matt had stopped listening to our conversation and was watching the court like the outcome would decide the rest of his life.
Sports were so weird.
Lucas stood again and caught my eye, gesturing toward the door. I got the impression he wanted to leave before the game ended and his old teammates could spot him, although it seemed like they’d be hearing about it either way. I could see Monica whispering to her friends at that very moment.
As I stood to follow him, Em said, “Be careful, Katie. You might want to be just friends, but you’d better make sure that’s what he wants, too. Lucas isn’t really the friends-with-girls type of guy, if you know what I mean.”
Did I ever.
I was still thinking about what Emily had said as Lucas drove me home, and when I looked up we were sitting in front of my apartment building. I hadn’t said a single word to him on the drive back. I wanted to ask him about Monica and whether he was dating her or had dated her or still wanted to date her, but it all seemed very un-friend-like, and I couldn’t get the words out. Even though I told him he didn’t have to, he insisted on walking me to my door.
“Where’s your Res, anyway?” I asked. “You never told me.”
“Why?” Lucas said. “Are you going to sneak into my room later tonight? I can tell you which window is mine and leave it open just a crack—”
“You’re sure of yourself, aren’t you?” I said, gracing him with a big eye roll as I unlocked the door to the building.
“Not all the time,” he said. I had to remind myself what a big night it had been for Lucas and that I should give him a break.
“Anyway, I live in Victoria Hall,” he said as we walked up the stairs. I noticed that his legs were so long he took the steps two at a time and sometimes three.
“I should have just met you there,” I said, feeling guilty. “The gym is barely a five-minute walk from here. Instead you had to drive all the way over here in your car just to get me.”
“Actually, it’s my roommate Danny’s car,” Lucas confessed. “He drives like a maniac. I think he dented the door slamming into a mailbox. He was drunk.”
“Sounds like a stand-up guy,” I muttered.
“But I would never have asked you to come meet me,” Lucas said as we reached my door. “I wanted to come pick you up.”
“Why’s that?” I said, feeling bold. I think a part of me was just sick of these little games we were playing. He had to learn that he couldn’t flirt with me mercilessly if he didn’t really want me. I had to draw a line.
“Don’t you know?” Lucas said.
This time my back was already against my apartment door and I had time to think, to see him coming. He stepped toward me gradually, inch by painful inch, and instead of pinning me there with his hands on either side of me, I felt them running down my arms to find my hands. The heat rose between us in a slow boil, and this time I didn’t tremble. This time I was able to meet his eyes and anticipate, and wish, and yearn.
It didn’t stop my heart from pounding though.
“Know w-what?” I stuttered as he pressed his forehead against mine, our breath mixing.
Even up close he was completely exquisite, perfect skin, dark and thick eyelashes, and those gorgeous eyes. I couldn’t stop staring into them—which was exactly the kind of thing friends did, right?
“Oh, Katie,” he said, bringing his hands up to my cheeks and holding them in his palms. I couldn’t believe how incredible it felt to have him hold my face in his hands. My eyes nearly rolled back in my head. “If I tell you now, I don’t think you’ll believe me. You’ll probably punch me in the stomach or something, and my body’s taken enough of a beating today.”
“I’m not violent!” I said, insulted. My hand came up automatically to smack him for what he’d said, but I wouldn’t let it. That’s how non-violent I was.
Chuckling, Lucas let go of my face—I almost groaned out loud—and leaned down to pull something out of my bag.
“Maybe I’ll just let the art do the talking,” he said, pressing his sketchpad into my arms. “That’s what the cool guys do, isn’t it? I’d write you a song, but I’m not much of a writer.”
“You don’t have to write me a song, Lucas,” I said, shaking my head at him.
“But I would,” he said, pressing his forehead against mine one last time before backing away toward the stairs.
“Don’t you want to keep your sketches?” I said, holding up the pad.
“No,” he answered, showing me his dimples. “They’re for you, Hero.”
“Don’t call me—” I said, but he’d already started down the stairs.
I unlocked the door to my apartment and dumped my bag on the couch before making straight for the cupboard. I knew what to do at a time like this. I pulled out a jar of Nutella. I had a spoonful in my mouth when I flipped Lucas’s sketchpad open.
The first few sketches were of the game: a jersey in motion, a player doing a layup, the ball going through the hoop.
Then I flipped to the next page and sucked in a quick breath.
There were ten more sketches in his pad. They were all of me.