I'd trade back every ounce of happiness I'd felt these last two weeks if it meant that I never had to see Marcus Romano again. Every second long he was around me, the shiny red target on his head was getting bigger, and bigger. And believe me, I was sourcing the arrows to kill him.
Saying I'd grown tired of him would have been the understatement of the year. I was growing furious with him. To the point where I was having dreams about screaming at him so much that he backed away and began to cry. And on top of the frustration I was still harbouring after sitting in my art classes doing absolutely no artwork, sending yet another stranger to escort me home was my boiling point.
The bottom line? I wanted to set him on fire.
The guy with the beet red face stumbled forward, his eyes a little glassy. “Miss Holland,I—”
“Hey, the attention you’re giving me right now? Put it on your receding hairline. Bye.”
I ignored the sheer horror on his face and waved him off before jogging over to Finn’s car. I hopped into the seat. I dropped my backpack and my portfolio in the footwell as I slammed it shut. “Quick sticks, Rhodes. Get me out of here.”
I glanced over at Finn, his wary look making me realise that I was safe now, and that there was no need for the mask.
I whipped my glasses off and passed him a genuine smile. “Thank you for saving me.”
The smile he shot me was like pure sunshine, and for a moment I was reminded of one of the reasons why Rory had fallen in love with him freshman year.
“Anytime, Cor.” He gripped the wheel and pulled out of the space, taking the regular turns and roads that would take us back home.
“Were you busy?” I asked, shuffling to face him.
His shoulders shrugged against his leather seats. “Nah. I was just in the library, but Rory wasn’t there to help with my long-term pronunciation, and I didn’t exactly like the idea of talking to myself, and then luckily you texted me.”
I’d texted him about fifteen seconds into Marcus’ guy getting out of his car and calling my name as I speed-walked away from him.
“Who was that you were screaming at? Someone who looked at you the wrong way?” I turned just in time to catch the end of Finn’s smirk, before his fierce green eyes were back on the road.
“I don’t know how Rory doesn’t get sick of your sarcasm.”
Lie.
Finn Rhodes could be sarcastic with me from sunrise to sunset and he’d still melt my heart with a side glance and that smirk.
His lips tugged down as his brows rose. “I make up for it in other ways.”
I grimaced. “Christ, and don’t we know about it.” I pulled the visor down, checking my lip liner as I heard him grunt a laugh. “No, I’m serious. I’m debating raising the issue at the next house meeting and proposing that Rory soundproof her room.”
As his laughs engulfed the car, I couldn’t help but let one slip too.
It was a few beats of silence before he added, “Missed that smile.” My eyes darted to him, in time to see his dimples deepen. “Missed you beingyou.”
I didn’t miss the way he put the emphasis onyou.
My smile thinned. “I don’t think I’m fully me again yet.”
He huffed. “Exactly—yet.” His head nodded toward me, eyes steady on the road. “Look at you, I’m picking you up from your classes.”
A barely-there laugh slipped from me as my eyes rolled. “Because I was too afraid to walk home on my own.”
Too afraid of getting another text like I had a month ago and having a breakdown in the middle of Chelsea.
There hadn’t been any more texts since the last one. But that didn’t mean anything to me. All it did mean was that I was on the edge of my seat every time my phone chimed.
Finn shook his head, blonde waves falling over his forehead, catching in the midday sun. “You’re focusing on the wrong part of that. I just picked you up from class. An in-person class.” As we reached a traffic light, his eyes found mine. “You’re on the right track, and we’re all extremely proud of you. I hope you know that.”
Something I didn't know what to call tugged behind my eyes, making my brows pull inwards the slightest bit, but enough to let Finn know how much that meant to me. I didn’t bother mentioning to him that I failed to do the one thing I was supposed to do in that class, which was paint, because he was right. Cora four months ago would have barely made it to the bathroom without breaking down. And I’d only cried once today, and that was from behind my canvas when I couldn’t bring myself to lift the brush.
But I suppose the fact I was there at all meant more than I realised.
