She was four feet away from him, and for the second time that day, the elevator doors were about to slam shut in her face. He leaned over and jabbed a button, halting their advance. She watched him with a razor-sharp acuity. She didn’t move. Her cheeks were pinked, her wide-eyed stare fringed by dark lashes. With slow-budding alarm, he realized he’d spoken her name right out loud.
Lane.
As if he knew her. As if the years hadn’t rendered them strangers.
He was an idiot. This shouldn’t have come as a surprise. He’d known she’d be here today. Lane. His Lane. In his school. In his personal space. In his immediate orbit. He’d been briefed of her imminent arrival well in advance. Warned, really.
“It’s happened. The Meyers-Petrov girl has been accepted to the program. She’s to start in September. You’ll keep away from her, Price, do you understand?”
He jabbed the button again. The doors rattled on their track like ponies at the gate. Because he had to say something, he said, “Are you planning to get into the elevator at some point today?”
He’d meant it to come out cordial. Instead, the strain of his surprise robbed him of tact. His delivery was bladed. She blinked and pushed past him in a huff, the pert tip of her nose rising into the air. With more force than Colton felt the situation merited, she propped herself against the adjacent wall.
It’s for the best, he thought, a little bit miserably.
She’d grown, over the years. It shouldn’t have surprised him, but standing so close like this, it felt like a shock. That was what people did. The earth turned and the years turned and so had she. The sight of her now sat at odds with his memory. For so long she’d existed singularly in his head. Frozen the way he remembered her. A small, cherubic point of light. Her nose pinched red by the cold, her tiny mitten scuffing his wrist.
“Are you a boy, or are you a shadow?”
There was nothing cherubic about her now. Everything on her was bold and dark. Her skirt was gray pleated gingham. The white scalloped collar of her shirt buttoned in the triangle of her throat. Everything else was black, down to the dark matte of her lips. She wore her hair in two high pigtails. Like she was going to a comic book convention and not to class. Like this was Ivy League cosplay and she was Wednesday Addams. The white-blond spill deepened to a pale violet coil at the ends.
The color reminded him of the coat she’d worn.
The one he’d clutched in his fist as he swallowed water.
“Another fantastic insult is ‘bunch-backed toad,’?” he said, because she’d caught him staring. The elevator lurched into motion. “In lieu of ‘asshole,’ I mean. It’s got a lot going for it. It’s Shakespearean. It’s unique. Classy, but still rude.”
He wasn’t supposed to talk to her.
He knew it, and yet he couldn’t keep the words from carving out of him anyway.
“Personally, I’m partial to ‘lump of foul deformity.’?”
She pinned him in a withering stare. “I think I’ll stick with ‘asshole.’?”
Instantly, something in his chest deflated. The elevator was tight and mirrored on all sides, and Lane stared dead ahead, making a terrific show of not paying him any attention. It was a ruse. From where he stood, he could very clearly see her studying the profile of his reflection.
The elevator climbed between floors, pulleys groaning. Colton checked his watch. The time was 10:42. The morning’s seminar was meant to begin at promptly 10:45, which meant he was going to be late. He hated to be late. Exhaling a sigh, he tipped his head back against the glass. As he did, he found an endless, darkening train of Lanes silently scrutinizing him. Color crept into her ivory complexion. Her gaze dropped to her boots. The elevator ground to an infuriating stop, and Colton fought the growing urge to loosen his tie.
In front of them, the doors rumbled open to reveal a familiar face. A lump solidified in Colton’s throat as Eric Hayes pushed over the threshold, ramming his substantial height into the already small space. The look he shot Colton’s way made him feel as if he’d been caught with his hands down his pants, and a hot well of resentment rose in his chest.
“Price,” Hayes said, leaning in for a greeting that was half handshake, half hug. He was broad-shouldered and black-skinned and built like an athlete, the disarming curve of his smile solely for Lane’s benefit. “I like your tie. It’s such a relief to know a summer away hasn’t made you look like less of a douche. Who’s your friend?”
“It’s unclear,” Colton lied, because he wasn’t supposed to know her, and both of them knew it.
“I’m Lane,” she said. She spoke to Hayes, but she looked at him. It felt as though she was daring him to say it again.
“Love the purple.” Hayes grinned over at her. “It’s very edgy.”
“Ignore him,” said Colton, but she didn’t. She smiled up at Hayes with a small, hesitant smile that made Colton’s chest draw tight. He still couldn’t believe she was here. Little rainbow Lane who’d held his hand. Feeling him staring, she let her gaze slip back to his. This time, he didn’t bother looking away.
It felt like an eternity before the elevator finally jolted to a stop. They’d reached their floor, and not a moment too soon. He was positive the oxygen supply was rapidly diminishing. He checked his watch again. It was 10:45. He should have already been inside the lecture hall. He should have never said her name. Everything about this morning was throwing him off.
Shewas throwing him off.
The seventh floor of Godbole was as flat and as open as the first. The tile was lacquered to a sheen. The white dais at the room’s crux supported a wide urn of some dripping floral arrangement. He gave in and tugged at his tie.
Up ahead, Lane was being borne away on the conversational tide that was Hayes, her black boots stomping in a noisyclick-clack-click.
