“Don’t think you’re getting out of this lesson!” Ms. Henley sweeps a few stray pieces of tissue paper off her laptop and taps the trackpad. On the whiteboard, the map of Cuba is replaced with a bullet-pointed list of keywords beside a black-and-white photo of JFK. “I’ll clean this all up after the period’s over. Right now, it’s back to work.”
So much for a silver lining.
Everyone settles down so Ms. Henley can resume her lecture, but I’m too amped up to concentrate. There’s a buzzing in my ears, almost like I’d actually been to a concert, and my brain feels fuzzy. Even if I was interested in the intricacies of the Cold War, I probably couldn’t process a word coming out of Ms. Henley’s mouth right now.
My eyes slide to Walker, who’s back to being focused and disciplined. Notebook open, pen at the ready, phone nowhere to be seen. Ever the opposite of trouble.
Not for the first time, I wonder what his hair feels like. Is it soft and silky, or sticky with product? If I sank my fingers into those thick, brown curls, would they slide through easily or get tangled up in knots?
And I just now noticed: his hands are impeccable. Square palms. Strong knuckles. Clean, trim fingernails. He grips his ballpoint pen with purpose as it glides across his college-ruled paper. I can’t see what he’s writing, but I’m sure his notes are insightful interpretations of whatever Ms. Henley is blathering about.
Suddenly, his pen stops moving, which is weird because Ms. Henley’s still talking. My gaze drifts upward from his hand to his face and oh god those hazel eyes are aimed right at me.
I’ve been caught staring.
This is a disaster.
My brain screams, Look away, Ashley! But I can’t. The magnetic force of his body has pulled me in.
His brows knot together—confused, amused, who can tell?—and then the corners of his perfect mouth turn up. I’m not sure if he’s laughing at me or with me, but I do know this is the first time he’s ever looked at me. Like, really looked at me.
My breath comes fast and shallow, and when Walker drops his pen on his notebook, I stop breathing altogether. Because his impeccable hand is reaching across the aisle, and now it’s in my hair, and it’s possible I may pass out from lack of oxygen.
When he pulls his hand away, there’s a slender scrap of pink paper pinched between his thumb and forefinger. He shows it to me with a smile, then lets it flutter to the floor.
Immediately, he resumes his note-taking, but I’m not even in the classroom anymore. I’m at the finale of a Taylor Swift concert.
No, scratch that. I’m in Times Square on New Year’s Eve. The ball’s just dropped and everyone’s cheering and confetti is flying around like magic pixie dust.
Walker Beech touched me.
There’s my silver lining.
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