Randall had vowed that he would love me, but he stopped.
Today I vow that I will never think about him again. The difference though? I won't break this vow.
Time to pretend like last week hasn’t happened, that I don't have daddy issues, that I pictured a guy to finish.
I'm going to erase my reality and start fresh. A clean state.
I meant nothing to my father, but I'm going to damn well make sure I mean everything to Clayton Reeves.
Chapter 9
Maxwell
Anatomyisourmid-afternoonclass. I ran from the last one to here, trying to beat everyone to make sure I was here when Clayton arrived.
He is already in class. When the doors open, sounding the silence, he looks up and our eyes reach each other’s from across the room.
Clayton looks away too quickly, trying to ignore my existence.
Walking over to him, I stand in front of his desk and look down at him. He eyes move up the length of me, slow and controlled, looking like a sad puppy with his green eyes. They look like little marbles. The square framed glasses sit low on his nose, letting me see his eyes in full.
He’s my opposite in every way.
His hair is light and short, mine dark and longer. His eyes bright and full of life, mine dark and dead. He’s muscular with large arms and a wide chest. I’m lanky with skinny arms and a narrow chest. Helets everyone see that he’s smart and a nerd. I hide behind adrenaline and cigarettes and weed.
“Hi,” I say.
“What?”
“I want to start over. Fresh from the beginning. We both put away any ideas or impressions we have of the other. Start a clean slate,” I explain.
He looks at me, an eyebrow rising.
When he doesn’t say anything, I hold out my hand. “Hi, I’m Maxwell. You can call me Max, though.”
Shockingly, he slips his hand into mine, taking the bait, and shakes it with a firm grip. “Hi, Max. I’m Clayton. It’s nice to meet you.” He smirks at me, unsaid words hidden in that smile. I can’t decipher what it means and that he doesn’t share.
I point at the desk next to him. “Can I sit here?”
“Be my guest,” he motions to the seat.
I sit down, manspreading, and our knees touch beneath our desk. Both of us a bit too tall for these small school seats.
Other students finally start to shuffle in and class begins. The entire time we listen to Professor Adams give the lecture, we steal side-eyed glances when the other isn’t looking while we take notes for class. Both of us thinking the other doesn’t know that we’re looking, but we both do.
Every so often I peak over my shoulder. Mav and Dax watching us with curious looks. I didn’t tell them my plan. I probably won’t. They’re making fun of me for actually doing this, so, I won’t give them a reason to judge.
If anyone else knew I was doing this, they’d judge me too.
Pulling a piece of paper from my notebook, I write a note to him.
I watch him open the paper when I pass it to him. As he reads it, his jaw goes tight. I don’t miss the flex of muscles on his face. Clayton looks at me for a moment before he writes back.
I don’t write back because this feels like a conversation we should have verbally. I think back to the night at the dining hall. He seemed off. I noticed the way that his hands shook and how he didn’t even look at the alcohol. That was something I kept to myself, not wanting him to know that I noticed. It could just be that he isn’t in to parties, but my gut tells me it’s something much worse than that.
Class comes to an end, homework is given. Students start to pour out of the room, chaos and chatter heightened.
Leaning over to Clayton, I whisper in his ear, “why don’t you do parties?”
