When we stand, he hands me the items he collected. He towers over me. My head comes to his chest, but with my curls, it appears that I am at least three inches taller.
“Thanks.” My voice timidly leaves my dry throat. My eyes connect with his again, and he looks like he wants to have a conversation. Nope. Abort! Abort! I turn on my heel and walk away, dragging my massively large bag of embarrassment with me.
“It’s Leora, right?” Unlike my voice, his is bold, fearless. He does not hesitate; he wants to be heard.
I've always been a people pleaser, so I can't ignore him. I glance back at him and nod then try to walk away again, but he is persistent. He takes two steps with his long, dress-slacks-covered legs, and he is beside me, but I continue to walk. If I pretend I don’t see him, he will go away, right? But I do see him. Boy, do I see him.
“I’m Everett.”
“I know.” My eyes remain on the ground. I begin counting the dirty checkered squares as I walk past them. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven. Blue, white, blue, and white pass beneath my black knock-off Converse. It’s making me dizzy now that I am so intently focused on them.
“Are you okay?” He steps in front of me now, and I am forced to stop to avoid colliding with him—again. My eyes stay glued to his black sweater. The little Ralph Lauren logo mocks my thrift store baggy band tee. I can’t force my eyes up. Why is he so close to me? Can’t he see that I am freaking out right now? Does he have no mercy?
“Fine.”
He wraps his warm hands around my cheeks and lifts my face. I am forced to look in his devastating eyes. They bounce back and forth between my own blue ones.
His brows furrow with a question. “Are you sure? Because I think I may need to assess you for a concussion. You can’t seem to form a sentence longer than two words.”
His grin is sweet. Pulled up to the left, and a little dimple pops out. My head feels a little foggy at his closeness, his touch. Maybe someoneshouldcheck me for a concussion.
“My baseline is two-word sentences.” I hold my breath as soon as I speak the words.
“Ah. Six words. Don’t worry, everyone. She can indeed form a coherent sentence. I know you were all worried!” he loudly exclaims, and whoever wasn’t looking at us before sure as hell is now.
Great. Who the hell does that? Shouts into a crowd of people. Apparently, the same people who boldly just grab a stranger's face.
“Well, Leora, can I walk you to class? You know, make sure you don’t try to tackle any other guys? It would make me quite jealous.”
“I did not—!”
He throws his head back and laughs, clearly amused with the defensiveness that must have been on my face. I don't notice the corded muscles in his neck or the smooth, delicious-looking skin. I want to kiss him there, where his pulse is. Feel it flutter beneath my lips.
Nope, I don't notice that. Not at all.
Liar.
“Kidding! Really, it was my fault. I wasn’t paying attention. Actually, confession time? I might have done it on purpose.” He gives me a coy grin.
I don’t know how to feel about that confession. So I resort to my comfortreaction—run.
I step around him without saying a word. I practically speed walk the rest of the way to my class, or at least that was my plan. But a hand around my elbow stops me. Plans ruined.
“Wait! Okay, I’m sorry. No flirting. Got it. Just don’t run away, please.”
The please is what gets me. Always the please. I turn to look at him, and his face is apologetic. He did catch me when he could have let me fall. He has been kind, but something in my gut tells me to no longer entertain our encounter. I can’t trust him. I can’t trust anyone, except Ski, and I for sure can’t get close to anyone. Get through this year and get out of town. That’s my plan.
“I’m sorry. Thank you…for catching me. Okay, bye,” I say with a touch more confidence, hoping this time he understands the finality in my words.
Turning on my heel and clutching my belongings to my chest, I restart my journey to my first class. I make it down to the end of the hall, finally releasing a breath, knowing their eyes aren’t on me any longer.
“You’re welcome, Leora Laney!”
He screams it down the hallway. All eyes turn to me again.
Kill me now, please.
Rushing to my first class—chemistry, I grab the syllabus, as instructed to do so on the board, and find my seat in the front, always the front. The cool kids sit in the back. I am not included in that definition, nor do I ever want to be.
