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"You sleep, too. And for the love of God, please ice your hand," she ordered before escaping to her room.
I'd done as she said, placing an ice pack on my hand, but it didn't stay there for long before I'd got another idea, one that kept me up until the sun started to peek over the horizon. I don't know when I stopped drawing, falling asleep with my cheek imprinted on my desk. I do know that when my hand reached for my phone, I was wide awake, buzzing with nerves.
Inkmic's app had never been slower. As the wheel of death spun, I got ready. I had a Q&A with a local middle school class this morning. Today, more than ever, I needed to avoid the tortured artist look. Most of the time, I was able to hide the red in my eyes with a few eye drops and color corrector over my dark circles, but as soon as I stepped into the bathroom, I realized my mistake.
"Oh, my God." I tossed my phone on the counter and tugged at my shrunken ‘fro. Usually, I was always sure to twist my hair before bed, making sure it was moisturized. Unfortunately, night had flown by, and I wouldn’t put down my sketchbook unless it was to pick up my iPad.
I reached for my spray bottle and soaked my hair until water dripped down my neck. I had an hour to sort myself out before I risked being late for an event I’d thought of. Despite the time crunch, I kept refreshing Inkmic. Something was wrong with the app—it only showed the top ten stories.
I hadn't made the top ten, but Sage was still there. She was number three. The app showed her statistics, too. The exponential jump in the graph made my chest tighten. I wish I could say her story wasn't that good.
But no, her comic was perfect. She'd opened the story in media res with a full-blown battle between two starships commanded by sworn enemies.
She'd won me over the second I laid eyes on those characters, those cold remarks entangled with hot glares getting me every damned time. She might not be planning an enemies-to- lovers arc, but the set up was all there.
It wasn't just the art that was amazing, either—it was the dialogue. Sage had improved from previous works. Her character's conversations were often stiff, but in this new comic, every word flowed, and some lines almost came off as poetry. It was so beautiful, I wanted to chuck my phone against the wall. The one thing I had on her was dialogue. Now, she had gone and taken an overnight writing course or something.
By the time I got my hair into mini twists, the app finally showed where the rest of us ranked. I grumbled to myself the whole ride over.
Theoretically, sixtieth place wasn't horrible. I was in the top hundred out of thousands of entries. If I was a math person, I would take into consideration how far I'd jumped. Sage only moved up seven spots. I'd come from the thousands. Statistically, that was better, right? Because that's how math worked…I think.
"I should probably factor in the number of votes and not just the spots I've moved," I whispered to myself as I pulled into the middle school parking lot. "That's what a math person would do, right?"
I had half a mind to call my parents, but once I got them on the phone to talk about any non-art topic, they wouldn't let me hear the end of it. They'd send me links to articles for the rest of the week, maybe even offer to pay for a community college course, because "you're never too old to change careers."
The disapproval on my brow didn't smooth out as I stepped out of my car. The roar of an engine snapped me out of my failed statistical analysis. A motorcycle pulled into the empty spot beside me, and I had a hard time swallowing when I realized who was under the helmet. Of course, she had to show up on that thing and look good while doing it.
"Morning," Sage greeted, her tone as lazy and slow as her growing grin. She lifted her leg over the bike, dismounting in a manner I personally felt was unnecessary for public consumption. My temperature rose as she tugged her gloves off with her mouth.
"How are you?" she asked, still grinning, still making it hard for me to breathe.
I'd seen her on a bike plenty of times—she'd ridden one back in college, too—but something was different about how she carried herself on this one. There was maturity and confidence in her posture. When we were younger, she had been riding that thing with sheer ego fueling every movement. Now, she didn't have anything to prove.
"Good morning." I slammed my car door a little too hard. "I'm good."
She whistled. "You sure? Seems like you're taking your frustration out on your car."
I frowned. "Excuse me?"
Sage placed her helmet in the seat storage and pulled out a small, black backpack. "I know you're not in the top ten, but sub-hundred isn't bad. Your readers seem to be loving the new chapters. No need to fuck up your car because of your worries."
"I'm not worried about the rankings." The lie needed work. It was too thin and coarse.
Sage chewed on her lip, trying to keep her smile from growing. It's the absolute best play she can make right now. Still, instead of the smug smile inciting a desire to argue like it normally would, it made me want to get on her bike. For a second, I imagine how it would feel wrapping my arms around her as she rides. How soft the curve of her waist would feel against my fingers. How my thighs would apply pressure against hers. Sage sitting between my legs was suddenly a stomach-twisting desire, a warm want that grew hotter with each breath. I had to force myself to think of her cockiness, the way she rolled her eyes at my outfits or made snide remarks about my anatomy drawing skills. It was enough to wipe away my misplaced desire to cuddle up to her.
"Then what is it?" Her gaze held mine, and the teasing in her eyes was replaced with something more serious. Something, dare I say, sincere?
"Just…this is my first time talking to a class." My stomach carried a few butterflies because I'd be public speaking for the first time since my final presentation senior year.
"I get it." Sage nodded. "I nearly puked the first time I did one of these things. Talking to people sucks, especially teenagers. I get war flashbacks coming to middle schools."
"I find it hard to believe you didn't run your school," I teased. "Or, at least, was best friends with the girl who did."
"Nope. Worse: I was in love with the girl who ran it."
I laughed. "No way? That's…"
She closed one eye, pretending to wince. "Cliché, I know. Want to know something that makes it ten times worse?"
