“One more.”
I take a few ragged breaths, and then I let my shaking arms lower toward my chest.
“Tell me this,” he says. “Was it more important than outplaying Abrams? Because that’s what all this is for, right? No one works this hard to ride the bench.”
Sweat runs in my eyes as I began to push up one last time. Ryan’s two fingers under the bar disappear and now both his hands grip the bar, pushing down just enough to add resistance.
I growl as I try to push past him.
“Was it more important?” he asks slowly, enunciating each word by letting me gain just a centimeter. My arms are shaking badly now, and the ache extends from my wrists to my shoulders.
I think about Dallas, and rather than answering, I grit my teeth and push up as hard as I can, dislodging Ryan and depositing the bar on the rack. I sit up, and my arm screams with the effort to even just lift up the hem of my shirt and wipe at the sweat on my face.
“Anyone ever tell you that you’re a bastard?” I say.
“Once or twice. Who is she?”
I stiffen and stand up, stretching my arms above my head. “What do you mean?”
“If it were anything else, you would have just said yes or no. When guys start having trouble giving straight answers, I find that it’s usually about a girl.”
“For your information, I was up doing homework.”
“Riiiight.” He raises his hands does those lame air-quote things. “Homework.”
I shake my head, pushing the sweaty hair off my forehead. “Doesn’t matter. We’re just friends.”
“I knew it!”
“Watch it, Blake. Don’t make me shove that dumbbell up your ass to keep your head company.”
“Fine. Fine. Go shower. Rest up so you don’t embarrass yourself in front of Torres and Brookes this afternoon. Then you can just concentrate on the friend zone . . . I mean end zone.”
I shove him, and he just laughs in response.
“Bastard.”
“Yeah, well. Let’s both get our heads out of our asses before this afternoon, hmm?”
Chapter 13
Dallas
I’m heading out when Stella comes home that evening.
“You going to the cafeteria? I’m starving!”
“Uh . . . no. I already ate. Sorry.”
She nods, stripping off a paint-covered T-shirt. “Dance class or work?”
God, why couldn’t I have just left five minutes earlier?
“Neither. Studying.”
She gives an exaggerated snore. If she knows where I’m actually going, she’ll never let me hear the end of it.
“Fine. Go do your thing. But first . . . I made something for you.” She drags her large portfolio bag that she uses to carry her artwork onto the bed. She unzips the top and reaches inside. “Ta-da!”
She thrusts a small canvas painting in my direction. In the center in thick, deep red is a heart (the metaphorical, not anatomical, kind). It’s painted so that it looks three-dimensional, like I could pick it up off the page. And down the center of the heart are black, string laces, pulled tight, and squeezing the heart, exaggerating its shape.
“It’s your corset heart. Remember?”
I remembered our discussion in the library before Carson had interrupted us, the one all about how I am laced too tightly to ever let myself fall in love. When I really think about it, that oppressed heart is a pretty damn accurate depiction, but as I hold it in my hands, I feel my stomach toss. I might be sick.
“You hate it,” Stella says.
“No, it’s really pretty. I love the colors.”
“But you’re not exactly a hearts-and-flowers kinda girl. I know. It’s fine.” She moves to take it back. “I’ll just paint over it. Try something new.”
“No!” I jump back, holding the small painting away from her. I clear my throat. “No. I’d like to keep it . . . if that’s okay with you.”
Stella looks even more shocked than I feel. “Really?”
I nod.
“Yeah. It’s all yours.”
I slip it in my oversized purse, say goodbye, and walk out the door.
I’ll keep the painting because it’s pretty, because Stella made it and against all odds, I love her. I’ll also keep it as a reminder of the person I’ve let myself become.
I DIDN’T LIE to Stella, not really. I just didn’t elaborate on what studying meant. Or more specifically, with whom I’ll be studying. I ran into Carson earlier today on my way to my geology class as he was leaving. He asked what I was doing tonight, I said homework. I asked him, and he answered the same. And when he suggested we do our homework together . . . at the same time . . . in the same place . . .
I agreed.
I volunteered to meet him at his apartment again because I still am not ready for the ramifications of hanging out with him in public. It seemed like a reasonable, harmless way to spend the evening.
Wrong. Oh so very wrong. In fact, I keep hearing that word, echoing like a gong in my head. I changed probably half a dozen times before settling on a simple pair of shorts (the longest pair I owned) and a V-neck tee.
And as I pull up outside his apartment, I am a mess. A hot mess. A steaming pile of . . . mess.
I know how dangerous this is. The potential stupidity of this night is epic in nature, but I still don’t turn around and get back into my car (even though I really should).
Between our interactions so far and the unfamiliar rawness in my chest that’s been chafing at me since Stella gave me that painting, I am not at all in control.