“Of course. I promised I’d help with your costume, remember?”
She nods, sliding her hands on her pants before climbing to her feet.
“I’m here for you, whether you tell her or not. Unfortunately for Grant and the Fielder’s, I’m not as put off by gray areas. In fact, I prefer them.” I bump her shoulder with mine.
“Uh…Gen?” the shy voice interrupts again.
“Coming!” she calls, her voice so polite I can hardly believe anyone has ever called her an ice queen. She gives me an appreciative glance before following the girl out the door.
“Oof,” I groan, approaching Jean as he stretches on an art cart a few feet away. I begin to organize the paint brushes, a nervous habit that Beau would joke I get from Evie, the accusation always met with an icy roll of my eyes. The memory makes me feel squirmy and tired.
“You can say that again…” Jean picks up a few brushes and sets them in what he thinks are the right cups, laughing at the winces I make when he sorts one wrong. “You have the worst poker face,” he chides and I wish he knew how good my poker face actually was, how I can so easily store away my own thoughts and feelings to make room for others.
“So, how’s Ian?” I decide to change the subject instead.
“I’ve been avoiding him like the plague since Gen told me about this Lily thing. If he ever found out…” He shakes his head and I nod. We both know he’d have to be crazy not to run a story like this.
“Areyougoin’ to the party?”
Jean sighs, pushing his pale hand through his jet black waves. “Probably not. Will, Grant, Gen and Ian in one room?” He looks at me knowingly.
“Cmon. She needs us.”
He raises an eyebrow smirking. “Sure,” he shrugs, forcing me to wrinkle my brows.
“What?” I cross my arms.
“I can think of another reason why you may want to attend that party.” He clucks his tongue, turning toward the sink to wash his now paint smattered hands.
“Enlighten me, because none seem to come to mind.” I know my scowl proves the opposite and this only amuses Jean more.
“A certain Andrew Spellman?” His voice is like a parent’s chastising a child and I feel my defenses rolling up.
“You’re ridiculous, you know that?” I nudge him at the sink, reaching over to pump some soap into my own palm.
“Ridiculous is you pretending you haven’t been ogling that boy for like a month.” He rips a paper towel from the machine.
“I—”
“Stop. Terrible poker face, remember?” He cuts me off. “What is stopping you from ripping his clothes off?”
“I just don’t feel like it, okay?” My tone comes out sharp and Jean softens a bit.
“Is it because of the whole…professor thing?” Anger flares in my nostrils and he must notice the tone shift because he holds his hands up as if to pause the reaction. “Look, it’s clear you're figuring some shit out, but just like you told Gen, I am here foryou,too. We don’t have to talk about it,” he nods his head as if to gesture to the subject that is sleeping with my professor, “but if you ever do want to…we can.” I release the breath I’m holding and it feels like something is stuck in my lungs.
“Thanks,” I say weakly and he gives my arm a squeeze.
“Jean. You're needed stage left,” the same meek voice interrupts.
“Gotta jet!” He jogs toward the door.
“Come to the party—please,Ineedyou!” I yell after him.
“I’ll check my schedule.” He winks before exiting and I’m left with nothing but scraped wood boards and dirty brushes.
16
Sloane
