He takes a step closer, and the toe of his shoe touches mine. My fingers spread on the cool wall behind me, grounding me in the heat of his body. Our faces are inches apart. I have nothing to hide behind. No belt buckles, rumors, or red Solo cups.
His warm breath brushes my lips. “Why do you say shit like that to me?”
My heart thrums in my ears, and I can barely hear my response. “Maybe I like the attention.”
“And Mr. Doau? Carter? Marco?” His eyes darken. “You like attention from them too?”
“They’ll give it to me whether I want it or not. At least this way, I have some control.” The honesty spills from my tongue before I can rein it in.
Easton’s brows slant together, and his eyes flick between mine. “Is that what you think? That you don’t have a choice?”
I swallow the lump in my throat. The weight in my chest grows heavier with each word from his mouth. I can’t handle any more, so I change the subject. “I want to know why you’ve spoken more to me this week than you ever have in the past three years.”
“Do you want me to stop?”
I chew my lip like I’m contemplating it. “No.”
Damnadrenaline. Damnheat. DamnEaston.
“Then tell me, how long has he been doing that?”
Sonofabitch.
“Are we playing twenty questions? Because if we are, I think you’ve reached your limit.”
“Dammit, Eva,” he mutters, gritting his jaw. “This isn’t some fucking game. The way people treat you isn’t a game.”
“But it would be so much more fun if it were, don’t you think?”
He scans my expression, reading every inch of me. I train my features to keep them blank, but the longer he studies me, the harder it gets.
I don’t want you to see.
I don’t want you to know.
“Hey! Do you two have a bathroom pass?” I can feel the hall monitor push up his glasses beside us while getting out his little notebook.
Easton and I don’t release each other’s stares, saying nothing but so much at once.
“I’ll take that as a no. You’re violating Code 2 Dash 3 of the Student Handbook,” he announces, like he’s in training to be a wannabe mall cop. “I’m going to have to write both of you up for detention.”
Easton holds eye contact with me for a moment before he steps back. His shoulders fall, and he slips his hands into his pockets. “You always have a choice, Eva. Don’t ever let anyone tell you otherwise.”
The stupid stinging behind my eyes intensifies, and I don’t know how to respond.
The hall monitor furiously writes up detention slips. “No talking in the halls during class. Code 2 Dash 6 of the Student Handbook.”
I ignore him.
“What did you say to Mr. Doau?” I whisper, hating the sliver of desperation leaking through.
“Do you really want to know?”
“I just ... I don’t want to make a scene, Easton. Please.” I know I sound weak. But I feel weak too.
The hall monitor slaps a detention slip into Easton’s hand, but when he goes to hand me mine, I don’t have the energy to take it, so Easton does.
“Code 3 Dash—”
