“I know, but it’ll be helpful for my med school applications. Football should help, too. Shows I have time management skills. Commitment. Dedication. Discipline. The ability to work within a team.” He grins, but after a moment, his smile wilts, his face taking on a more serious expression. “A lot of people think I’m joking when I tell them about my med school plans.”
“Why would they think that?” I ask, and then remember my reaction when he first told me in class—I kept waiting for the punchline.
I shift in my chair, feeling a little guilty.
He shrugs. “Football…it was hard work, sure. But it also came naturally. So do academics, though, and I purposely chose to come to Stratus because it was more academic than some ofthe other schools. I worked my ass off to make excellent grades while also playing for the team, so it feels kind of shitty when people laugh when I tell them my goals.”
“Anyone who knows you knows how intelligent you are,” I say softly. “How…special you are. Don’t listen to those people. There’s so much more to you than just athletics or being everyone’s favorite guy on campus.”
He swallows, his eyes going a little glassy before he grins at me. “Thanks, Ivy. That means a lot coming from you.”
I blush, ducking my head. “Me? Oh, I’m no one.”
“You’re not, though. I value your opinion, you know that?” I nod, even though I didn’t know that, and remain quiet. Really, I’m at a loss for words. “Enough about me, though. When can I see some of your artwork? I’ve been meaning to ask.”
“I can show you my project for my Color Theory class,” I offer a bit nervously. I tend to be a little self-conscious sharing my work. “When it’s done.”
He juts out his bottom lip in a pout. “Why not now?”
I laugh at his exaggerated frown. “Okay, Mr. Impatient. It’ll be better when it’s finished, that’s why.” Before Wes can push further, my phone vibrates on the desk. I glance over to see the screen light up with a text from my brother.
Scott:Who’s going home on the 11th to sort through junk in the basement?
I’d nearly forgotten about that, and my mood dampens, the way it does whenever I think about going home.
“What’s wrong?” Wes asks, perceptive as always. “Who is that?”
I hadn’t even realized I was frowning, and I smooth out my face. “Oh, no one. Just Scott.”
“Scott?”
“My brother,” I mumble, setting down the ice pack and typing out a response.
Me:I’m going.
“I thought your brother’s name was Noah.”
“It is. I have two, Noah and Scott. They’re both older.”
Noah:I’ll be there, but I don’t wanna be.
“So, you’re the baby?”
I nod. “Yeah, but it doesn’t do me much good. Noah’s always been the favorite.”
He eyes me skeptically. “I find that hard to believe.”
“Trust me.”I’m no one’s favorite,I add mentally, but when I glance up at Wes to find him watching me so intently, my heart squeezes, and an errant thought pops into my head.
What I wouldn’t give to be his.
I spend another twenty minutes finishing my art history essay, and then Wes and I start practicing our speeches. My delivery starts out rough, but the more I practice, the smoother the words come out. The more I practice, the less I fidget and shake.
Somehow, I find a way to downplay my insecurities and the pain from my eye and the whirlwind of the last twenty-four hours and focus on the words, on the message, onWes. And when I deliver a near-perfect speech that has him beaming and pulling me into another exceptional hug, the fear fisting my heart eases up. I sink into him completely, grinning like an idiot against his shoulder.
When we finally pull apart, there’s a stillness to the air. A quiet. On instinct, I glance toward the window to see a flurry of snowflakes falling from the sky, coating the world in a blanket of white.
“Guess you’re staying the night again,” says Wes, his eyes sparkling with excitement at the prospect.
