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Dad would never have known where I was had it not been for Bec’s seizure. He called Dani’s mom, who asked her driver, Fil, where we were, and viola!
“You want yours now,” Luca asks, “or at lunch?”
He pushes the school door open, and I step inside in front of him. “You pick. Is it lunch-able?”
He laughs. “Do you want it to be?”
“I think my surprise is you.” I kiss his throat, glancing behind me right after to see if anyone saw—and there’s Ree, making faces from across the common area.
“Oh my gosh.”
“What is it?”
I point, and Luca waves. Ree blows him a kiss.
“Let’s do lunch. So I’ll have something to look forward to.”
Someone calls his name from across the way—one of the guys on the team, whom I don’t know well—and his eyes widen.
“Track?” I ask.
He steps close to me and kisses my hair. “Yeah, I’ll meet ya at the track.” A few strides from me, he turns around. “Don’t wear lipstick,” he mouths, miming putting some on.
I hold onto that image all morning—and the lit-up look in his gorgeous eyes.
He likes me. He likes me. Luca Galante likes me. I really like him, too.
He gives me my favorite book at lunchtime as we picnic in the field.
“Wuthering Heights.” It’s the perfect copy, leather-bound and lovingly worn. I laugh. “Who did you ask?”
“Hm?”
“Who told you, Ree or Dani?”
“Oh, I didn’t ask.”
“This is my favorite. Like, of all time. Why’d you get it?”
“I don’t know.” He smiles. “I just saw it and I thought of you.”
“You’ve read it?”
“Last year. I had Carr for lit.”
“Did you like it?”
“No.” His lips curve slightly, the only clue he’s teasing. “I hated it. That’s why I bought it. I hoped you could hate it with me. I mean, Catherine,” he shakes his head. “Such a megabitch.”
I shove him, and he wraps me in a bear hug, lying back in the grass with me halfway on top of him.
“I liked it,” he laughs, nuzzling my chin with his cheek. “La mia rosa, she’s a skeptic.”
“Why are you so perfect?” I give him a shoulder punch, and then we’re kissing. I don’t remember until Dani laughs at me in fifth period that I forgot to scrub my lipstick.* * *Elise
Two Weeks Later“Time is very slow for those who wait,” I murmur.
“Very fast for those who are scared.”
“Very long for those who lament.”
“Very short for those who celebrate.”
“But for those who love,” I murmur, “time is eternal.”
We’re lying in the grass out in the center of the track, reciting Shakespeare to a soft blue sky because my lit teacher, Dr. Cowles, is out for surgery, so right now we both have Mrs. Lynch for lit, and Literary Lynch is obsessed with Shakespeare. Rightly so, I have to admit. If there’s any writer worth becoming obsessed with, it’s Shakespeare.
“Was that right?” I ask Luca.
He opens a tattered, school-issue copy of Great Shakespeare, holding it over himself with one hand since his other arm is serving as my pillow. I look at his face, shadowed by the book. He’s got the longest lashes and the most delicious cheekbones…and those pretty boy lips.
I watch them curve and part. “Yep. We got it.”
“Oh yeah.” I wiggle my butt against the grass, laughing at what a dork I am. He gives me this funny look he gives me sometimes, like he’s not sure what planet I’m from. Then he kisses my cheek.
“Do you know the one you have to recite for your essay yet?” I ask.
His lips press into a small, mysterious smile. “Do you?”
“Of course.”
“Say it for me.”
“Ugh.”
“Do it,” he says.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No.” I’m pouting.
“Yes
“I sound so stupid doing stuff like this.”
“No you don’t,” he says.
“It’s going to be awful.”
“It’s gonna be fine. Say it. You never told me what you picked.”
“It’s from Macbeth. Act five, scene five.”
He raises his dark brows. “That sounds fun.”
“Oh yes.”
He rolls onto his side, sliding his arm out from behind my neck and using it to prop his cheek up as he looks down at me. When I rub my eyes, he quirks a brow up, prompting.
“I might get it wrong,” I hedge.
“You know what will happen if you do.”
I sigh. “I’m only saying the end part. The whole thing is really too long.” I clear my throat, and his face does the angel thing, where his eyes shine warm fuzzies at me and his smile says everything in life is golden. It gives me a little kick of bravery.
“Out, out brief candle! Life is but a walking shadow, a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage and then is heard no more. It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.”
His eyes shut as he lies back beside me, resting his cheek against the top of my head. Then he leans away again and peers at me.
