There’s that smile again; it’s even wider this time. "How about now?"
I nod, my mouth is so dry I can't get words out. Not that I was using them, anyway.
"Yay! Perfect!" She stands, comes around to my side of the table and hugs my neck, and I sit there like a very tall statue because my arms have apparently forgotten what they're for. "You're a lifesaver. I'm going to grab us coffees from the cart."
Thankful for a moment to process and remember how breathing works, I watch her bounce off toward the coffee cart at the other end of the library.
White jeans that hug every curve. Short red top. Ponytail dancing with every step.
I've watched Blaire Alexander from a careful distance for four years — peripheral, measured, the way you look at someone you know you can't have without making it obvious that you know. Close enough to notice things. The way she tucks her hair behind her ear when she's thinking. The way she laughs differently depending on who she's with.
I open my notebook to a fresh page.
Then I close it.
Then I open it again.
She's coming back with two coffees and that smile. I am in so much trouble it's almost funny.
Almost.
***
April 2016
"That's what they meant," she says. "Why didn't the textbook just say that?"
"Because the textbook was written to make people feel stupid."
She points at me. "Yes. Exactly. Thank you." She writes something in the margin of her notes and I catch a glimpse — big looping letters, little stars dotted between lines like she can't help decorating everything she touches. "Can we do equilibrium next?"
"Sure." I pick up the textbook and open to the marked chapter. When I look up, Blaire is watching me with an expression I don't immediately know what to do with.
"What?" I swipe at my mouth. "Do I have something on my face?"
She starts to blush. The prettiest shade of pink I've ever seen on another person. "No. I was just thinking that you're handsome. I like your face."
"I like your collarbone," I say with a coy smile.
She rolls onto her back and laughs so hard her hands go to her stomach.
Over the past month, we've built something I don't really have a clean word for. Friendship is the closest one, and I hate it, but the reality is that she still belongs to Colt Monroe. At leastthat's what he likes to remind me of every time we pass each other in the hallway.
You have my permission to tutor my girl. But don't you fucking forget who she belongs to, Gumby.
A couple of weeks ago, we moved our sessions from the library to our houses. Sometimes her bedroom, sometimes mine. Because of the way Blaire laughs, the librarian kept losing patience with us. Being alone with her in our rooms has been its own particular brand of torture, but one I'd endure on a loop just to stay near her.
"I can't believe you remember that." She's still on her back, looking up at me over the top of her head. "What an odd thing to compliment a girl on."
"Well, it's true."
She grins at the ceiling. "Wanna take a break and watch a movie?"
I wake up three hours later, laying on Blaire’s bedroom floor, her head on my chest and her arm draped across my stomach.
The next morning, I received a message -Blaire: You have a snuggle buddy for life. Best nap ever. Also, you should never be allowed to pick for movie night again. Hope you have a reason to smile today.
***
