The wallet was too tempting to pass up.
The leather is smooth and worn; I guess he’s had it forever. All the sleeves and pockets are full, and I take my time going through each one, checking over my shoulder every few seconds. He’s still asleep on the cot.
There’s a little bit of cash, a few stray business cards, a punch card from Hamilton Brew. All very typical. I pull out his driver’s license and silently laugh at the old photo. Comparing the Lucas in the photo with the one asleep in the corner, I can admire how the features I once ignored have been etched and sharpened by time. I try to shove the card back behind the vinyl sleeve, but something blocks it from sliding in smoothly: a small, folded piece of paper. I tug it out and realize it’s a photo.
The faded lines from the picture’s creases don’t dull the shock of recognition. It’s one of my school photos. Seventh grade. The worst school photo I’ve ever taken. Even now, I cringe. Let me describe it: my blonde hair is frizzy and wild. I sport large eyes, desperate for the rest of my face to catch up. My freckles feature prominently across my nose and cheeks. Braces have turned me into metal mouth and my eyebrows are out…of…control.
I thought I’d confiscated and burned every copy of this photo, but apparently Lucas got his hands on one. He’s probably saving it for my funeral, where he’ll have it enlarged and propped up with daisies beside my casket. I’m half-tempted to rip it into a million tiny shreds, but I don’t want him knowing I rifled through his things.
I hear rustling behind me and replace the photo and his license with superhuman speed. The wallet is right where I found it when I hear his feet hit the ground.
“What are you doing?”
I don’t turn around.
“Nothing.”
My voice says differently.
He laughs wistfully. “Do you even know what it feels like to tell the truth anymore?”
Truth: have you fantasized about our kiss in the hallway?
He walks over and yanks his stuff off the counter. My gaze is pinned on the floor. “That’s what I thought.”
HOUR 7
I wake up from a short nap on the exam table and inhale the sharp scent of fumes—permanent marker fumes. When I reach up to wipe sleep from my eyes, the smell gets worse, and then a devastating sight comes into view: my entire cast is covered.
“LUCAS!”
I sit up and see him sitting on the stool in the corner, rearranging the items in his wallet.
“LUCAS!” I shout again. He still doesn’t look up. He pulls an old business card from his wallet and tosses it in the trash.
“I can’t believe you did this.”
“What?”
“LUCAS. YOU DREW ALL OVER MY CAST! I look like I just got back from a middle school church camp!”
I hold it up for both of us to inspect. He’s taken a Sharpie and defaced the entire surface with hearts and quotes.
I love Lucas
Marry me, Lucas
Daisy+Lucas=<3
“Looks like the lovesick ramblings of a teenage girl to me. Are you sure you didn’t do that in your sleep?”
“Ha ha,” I say, having calmed down enough to appreciate the fact that I would have done the exact same thing to him. “Well played. It is objectively funny that your face now covers my forearm. You even did some shading. Kudos. Now give me the stupid Sharpie.”
He points to the uncapped pen sitting on the counter. “All out of ink, I’m afraid.”
Another useless card from his wallet gets tossed into the trash.
He is completely placid, but his straight face is betrayed by a slight curl at the side of his mouth. He is pleased with my panicked attempts to resuscitate the Sharpie.
“Come on. Come on!” I slap it on the edge of the counter, trying to shake out any ink lodged at the bottom of the pen. I lick the felt tip and cringe at the taste.
“Huh, I guess it wasn’t dead after all,” he says, eyeing my new tongue tattoo.
After I wash the taste of ink from my mouth, I stay in the bathroom, deciding how to proceed. Blacking the entire thing out will be time-consuming and ugly.
Besides, I am more creative than that.
Every instance of I heart Lucas becomes I heart George Lucas.
The large portrait of his face is surprisingly easy to transform into an abstract interpretation of R2-D2.
The hearts he has scribbled along the sides become tiny Death Stars.
My graffitied cast is now an homage to Star Wars, and when I walk back into the exam room, Lucas acknowledges my craftiness with a nod.
“You seemed pretty eager to hide the fact that you heart me. Doth the lady protest too much?”
“The lady protests the exact right amount. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to hang out by the air vent, because I’m slightly high from all those fumes. Also, I think if I angle myself just right, I can pretend you don’t exist.”
HOUR 9