I feel emotionally bruised. Beaten. My eyes are puffy—my whole face is swollen, really—but there’s not much I can do about that besides splashing cold water on my skin and hoping the inflammation goes down. The world’s best concealer couldn’t disguise the fact that I was crying for most of the night.
After bundling up against the thirty-degree weather and twenty-degree wind-chill, I make the painful walk to class. I am dreading seeing Wes, and I mean even more so than usual. He’s too observant, and I’m not in the mood to be read like a book.
Alone in the empty classroom, I shed my coat and take my seat, staring out the window. I zone out, and before I know it, Markham’s calling for us to get to work, and we’re pushing the desks together again. I didn’t notice Wes come in, I’m that tired, but now he’s sitting across from me with his dark hair curling around his ears and his cheeks flushed from the cold.
“Hey, Partner,” he says. His eyes, bright and enthusiastic despite the early hour, dull when they register my face, and a crease forms between his brows. He leans over the desk, voice laced with concern as he asks, “Are you okay?”
It’s an innocent question. Expected. Unwanted.
I hold his gaze for one second, two seconds, three—before looking down at my hands folded in my lap. They’re shaking again, and I tuck them underneath my thighs.
“Yes. Can we just…get started?” I peek up at him.
He hesitates before leaning back in his chair. “Sure thing, Poison Ivy.”
I blink. “Poison Ivy?”
He gives me a tentative grin, some of the earlier excitement seeping back into his expression. “I’ve been saying it in my head since you first told me your name. Clever, huh?”
If my eyes weren’t burning, I’d roll them, because Wes seems like the kind of person who compulsively nicknames everyone he meets. Concentrating on the list of questions from last class, I ask, “What three qualities do you like about yourself?”
“Hmm, that’s a tough one. There are so many.” He grins at his little joke, but when I don’t laugh, his smile falters. He clears his throat. “Let’s go with…my perseverance, my sense of humor, and my ability to make a mean chicken piccata.” I blink at him, registering his words, and then my stomach rumbles at the thought of Italian food. I learned my lesson about avoiding the dining hall after a horrible bout of food poisoning first semester, so most of my meals are eaten from a can or a carton. As I type out his response, he waggles his eyebrows at me. “Wanna know the secret?”
“I guess?”
“You have to pound the shit out of the chicken. Flatter the better.”
“I’m sure you’re great at it,” I mutter, unable to help but glance at his arms. They’re definitely…large. So large that I can make out the toned muscle through the fabric of his long-sleeved shirt.
“What? Pounding?” His smile turns mischievous, and my eyes widen as I realize what I said.
“N-no! I mean, yes. I-I was referring to your size—” I snap my mouth shut, because that doesn’t sound right either. Face flaming, I drop my head, thinking,kill me now.
Wes laughs. “I’m just messing with you, Poison Ivy. What three qualities doyoulike about yourself?”
Fighting off the lingering embarrassment, I stare at my keyboard, eyes trained on a tiny crumb between the D and the F. My mind’s blank. I can’t think of a single thing. “I’m…not sure.”
“Come on,” he urges with an encouraging smile. “There’s gotta besomething.”
“I guess my attention to detail, my creativity, and my…” I trail off. My shoulders sag. I’m not in the right mental state to wax on about my own personal merits. “I don’t know. Just write two. I just…don’t know.”
I peek up at Wes in time to see his eyes dull again, a shadow passing over his face as he regards me. He looks like he’s going to ask me again if I’m okay, so I blurt out the next question. “What’s one thing you would change about yourself?”
He perks up and reaches for a giant thermos on the floor beside his desk. I didn’t notice it before, but I’m struck by how monstrous it is, even held between his two enormous hands. “Oh, my caffeine addiction. It’s shameful, really. It’s barely eight-thirty, and I’ve already had two of these.”
“Is that why you’re so—” I pause, trying to find a non-offensive term for the ball of energy that seems to radiate him from the inside out. “Animated?” is what I settle on.
He blinks at me for a second and then throws his head back in a laugh. “You’re too nice. Believe me, I’ve heard it all, especially as a kid. Hyperactive. Manic. Wired. Restless. Wild.”
My brows shoot up. “People called you those things?”
He nods, setting the thermos on his desk. “Oh yeah. Parents. Teachers. School administrators. Turns out I’m just a naturallyanimatedperson. They should put me in a Pixar film.” I almost crack a smile at that. Almost. “What wouldyouchange?”
This answer is obvious. “I’d like to wake up tomorrow and be a phenomenal public speaker.”
“None of us are good at public speaking. That’s the point of this class.”
“You seem very comfortable.”
