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“Liar.”
Nick's grip on his mug tightens, face scrunched in exasperation. “Would you drop it already?”
“Is the big bad Nicolas Silvascared?”
“Would you shut the fuck up?”
If two years of friendship have taught me anything, it’s the skill of tolerating Cass and Nick’s bickering. Something Ben has yet to master; his gaze flits between the pair like he’s watching a tennis match. When he side-eyes me with a mixture of confusion and amusement, I already anticipate his question. “Are they always like this?”
I take a long, needed sip of sweet, nutty coffee. “Pretty much.”
* * *
Sometimes, my hands do this thing.
They kind of disconnect from the part of my brain that controls them and imprint my random stream of consciousness onto paper. Draw whatever they want without me realizing. Usually, it’s harmless. Usually, it’s whatever random shit is on my mind; my sisters or the ranch or, occasionally, the face of a woman, an older version of Lux, who really doesn’t deserve to be immortalized in print.
This time, though, the sketch staring up at me, a heart-shaped face framed by wisps of wavy hair, does not feel harmless.
Damn it.
Releasing a frustrated puff of air, I shove my sketchbook away.
The art store I work at is supposed to be my slice of peace. It’s rarely busy, which means I spend most shifts with only my thoughts as company, quietly and sporadically interrupted by the scratching of charcoal against paper. My time here isn’t usually invaded by thoughts of a pretty girl and what her exact eye shape is or how I’m failing to truly execute the impatient arch of her brows.
I swear, I’m not usually this pathetic.
Elbows hitting the counter, I drag my hands through my hair, head dropping in unison with my eyelids as I will myself to think of something, anything, else. But as the seconds pass, it feels more and more like an impossible task.
I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’m not like this, I don’t get hooked like this. Not in the way that Cass and Nick don’t, where commitment is the issue. It’s the opposite, really. Like I said before, casual isn’t really my thing, and college breeds casual. It’s more like I’ve never been interested. Not enough, anyway. Never had my eye caught.
Not like this.
It’s fucking torment.
My head lifts reluctantly as the bell above the front door chimes, duty calling. But my customer-service-friendly smile dissipates just as quickly as it slips into place when I get an eyeful of who strides through the door and suddenly, I’m hit with the urge to drop to the floor and hide.
Impossibly tight denim shorts.
I’m ashamed to admit that’s what I notice first.
Hard not to when they’re clinging so tightly to such tanned, toned legs. A flash of something sparkly draws my gaze upward, and a groan builds and dies in my throat at the sight of a diamond bellybutton piercing glinting in the light, showcased by the cropped cut of the flouncy, floral v-neck top knotted a few inches above it. I skip quickly over the expanse of freckled chest revealed, landing on a face I suddenly feel embarrassed for having tried to replicate.
I could have all the talent in the world and I’m positive I couldn’t do justice to the original.
She’s too vivid. Painfully so. Like a beautifully unnerving spot of color in a consistently monotone life. God knows I’d never capture that, and something in me doesn’t want to. It doesn’t seem right to trap all that within the confines of my sketchbook yet here I am, doing it anyway.
I straighten as she approaches, knuckles white with how tightly I grip the counter, a lump the size of Texas clogging my throat.
On the contrary, Luna is the epitome of relaxed. She breezes over, propping her palms on the counter, arms spread wide, one set of perfectly manicured pink fingernails tapping an offbeat rhythm. A hip cocks in unison with her head.
Not a hint of recognition in baby blue eyes.
She doesn’t remember. Of course, she doesn’t. Why would she? It’s naive to think a ten minute drunken interaction with some random guy would be enough to leave a mark.
“Hi,” Luna greets, and I resist the urge to close my eyes and bask in the smooth quality of that single word. “Can you help me?”
My nod is as stiff as my smile. “Sure.”
