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Like he held on to her yesterday.
I bet he looks at that note every day, several times a day in fact. I bet if I snuck into his office again and got into his drawer, I’d find that note exactly where it was the other day.
But I’m not going to.
I’m never going to.
I’m done with him.
I’m done with my crazy, unhealthy obsession that has the power to ruin everything that I value. My friendship with my best friend, my privileges at this school, my college applications.
My own self.
Actually, I was done with him three days ago, after the library where he crushed me so thoroughly. So much so that when I came back to my dorm, I spent thirty minutes in the shower, trying to erase his name off my thighs. And then the following day I didn’t go to my spot under the tree.
I haven’t been there in three days.
I haven’t even drawn him in three days.
Because I refuse to spend another second thinking about him.
That asshole.
I can’t believe I’m saying this about him, my Mystery Man. My thorn.
But the mystery has been solved now: he’s like every other man I’ve known in my life. He’s cruel and mean and a fucking douchebag.
So instead of wasting my time on him, I’m going to stop wallowing in this stupid misery. I’m an artist, damn it. And I need to stick to my schedule. And since I didn’t go to my spot in the morning, I’m going to it now, after school.
Not the one on the soccer field; it’s crowded there now. But the one where I was going to yesterday, before that plan was ruined.
I’m going back to the dogwood tree behind the cottages and this time I’m going to sit there and draw. And destroy the memory of what I saw there, and so when I round the corner and find the spot blissfully empty, I’m happy.
Reaching my tree, I throw my backpack down and sit on the ground. Propping myself against the bark, I snap open my sketchbook. But before I even have the chance to press the nib of my pencil onto the page, the last thing — the last man — I want to see right now appears.
Like yesterday, he emerges from between the two cottages, tall and broad, and blocks everything in my view.
He becomes my view as he starts to walk toward me, his lunging steps athletic and strong and beating in my chest like a drum.
They beat between my thighs, thrum on my skin like a pulse even though his name is no longer there. And I hate that so much that I shove aside my sketchpad and snap up to my feet.
Just to put a stop to this throbbing in my body.
Which only gets worse when I get a look at his face.
Because his face looks exactly like it did yesterday, with his scruffy, unshaven jaw and his messy hair. A slight strain around his eyes, his mouth.
Even his shoulders.
And like yesterday, something twists in my chest. Something compels me to take a step toward him.
But I don’t.
I won’t.
In fact I take a step back. I take two steps back and bump into the tree behind me.
“Don’t come any closer,” I say to him and he stops. “I’ve recently been given a ten-foot rule. And I don’t want to accidentally break it and spend the rest of my days trapped in here. Through no fault of my own.”
At my reminder of what he said to me that day, something ripples through his harsh features and I dig my nails into my palms.
“You haven’t come to your spot,” he says, watching me. “In the mornings.”
I swallow, steeling myself against his velvety voice. “Oh, is that another rule that I’m breaking now? You’re going to have to write this all down for me. It’s getting harder and harder to keep up with them.”
His eyes flash and his hands, fisted and shoved inside his pockets, tighten. “It’s your spot. Your daily routine.”
“So?”
“So you should stick to it. It belongs to you.”
I fold my arms across my chest. “Actually I’ve just realized that I don’t like the view anymore. From my spot. So I think I shall be picking a new spot for myself. Thank you though, Coach Thorne. I didn’t know you were so worried about my routine.”
His nostrils flare. “You’re upset.”
“Upset? Moi?” I point to my chest. “What, pray tell, do I have to be upset about?”
He stares at me a beat. I bet I look furious.
Good.
He should know that he can’t talk to me that way and get away with it.
“I was harsh,” he states, “with you. I was…” His eyes bore into mine. “Cruel. You shared things with me and I used them against you.”
He did.
I shared my entire life story with him. Not once but twice. The first time was eighteen months ago, but of course he doesn’t remember. But the second time was in his office. I told him about my parents, and he used it to crush me.
