The problem with Dr. Ross’s class is that I can’t actually watch him. He still sits behind me, completely out of view. I have to rely on my other senses, honing sharply into his every movement. It’s almost like back home with my step-father, Doug. The instant Sebastian sits in his seat, my brain fills in the gaps of what I can’t see. There’s the sound of him unzipping his backpack, the scrape of his notebook when he tosses it on his desk. The echoing click-clack of his mechanical pencil. The slide of his shoe as it moves along the tile floor and stretches out, invading the space beside my desk. My back straightens when he moves, silently tracking the way his limbs reach out for anything he can touch, feel, grab onto. Days have passed and he hasn’t messed with me again. Really, he barely glances at me. I’ve erected a force-field and it’s nearly like he’s abiding by it.
There are other sounds that pass through the barrier. Like when he sighs or mutters under his breath. Sometimes he curses, other times he’s working out his assignment, documenting each step along the way. The strangest thing is the reverberation of his laugh. If we’re positioned just right, I can feel it in my own chest. It’s weird to feel someone on the inside, when I won’t allow them to touch the outside.
At least he doesn’t seem to be approaching us, eyes fixed to his phone.
That is, not until Micha calls out, “H-hey, Bass.” His sister perfectly mirrors his expression; the dreamy smile and smitten eyes.
I don’t hide my own expression of horror when he looks up, stopping to regard them. There’s no mistaking what’s going down. The twins are crushing on this asshole something fierce. I’m literally walking with the Sebastian Wilcox freshman fanclub. He brightens under the attention like a flower to sunlight, blue eyes sparking. It makes me want to barf.
His eyes only flick to mine for the barest moment before he thankfully ignores me, sending them a roguish grin. “Why, Michaela Adams,” he greets, taking her hand and pressing a kiss to her knuckles. God, she looks like she’s about to actually swoon. “You’re looking lovely today. And Micha.” Micha’s already got his hand out, and I swear there might be drool happening. Sebastian doesn’t miss a beat, taking his hand and pressing the same quick, chaste kiss into Micha’s knuckles. “As always, the second prettiest guy at Preston.” He flashes Michaela a sparkling smile. “I’m the first, of course.”
He’s already strutting past us when Micha pushes a casual, too-late ‘psssh’ through his lips. “I’m so prettier than you.”
Sebastian just throws up a two-fingered salute, disappearing into the arts building.
Michaela lets out a squeal. “Oh my god, he kissed my hand!”
Micha gushes, “And mine! Why do I have to be a freshman?”
“Yeah, it’s the freshman thing standing in your way, and not the fact that he likes girls.”
He flicks a hand at her. “Whatever, I’m more of a girl than you.”
“Fair.” She nods, apparently unable to argue with this. “And no way you’re prettier than him.
He just nods back. “Also fair.”
I can’t take it anymore. “Oh, come on.” I stop in my tracks, lifting a hand toward where he disappeared. “The guy’s a total jerk! Plus, that hair? Really?”
“Sebastian’s not a jerk,” Michaela says, and she’s not even arguing with me or anything. She says this like she’s informing me that the sky is blue—like I’ve missed out on something important and fundamental.
“He’s really nice,” Micha agrees, head tilting, “unlike his brother, who is undeniably the worst. And what’s wrong with his hair?”
Michaela twirls one of her braids, eyes glossing over. “It looks so soft.”
“He’s always pushing it out of his face.” He does that thing where he rakes it back, forehead-to-crown, like some kind of shampoo model. “Which means it annoys him, but he keeps it because he’s a vain fuckwit.”
They both give me confused looks, and I can tell that it doesn’t matter. What is with this place? Is there something in the water that makes everyone think Sebastian Wilcox is god’s gift to men and women alike?
Maybe it’s not everyone else, my brain unhelpfully supplies. Maybe it’s you.
No.
No fucking way. Anyone who can be like him, buzzing with tense fury one day and this flirtatious and charming the next, can’t be anything but bad news.
I’m surprised that Georgia seems determined to be friends with me, despite the difference in our backgrounds. It’s pretty obvious that I’m the one with the hang up over our economic differences. I’ll just add it to the pile.
Eventually, I allow Georgia and Vandy to talk me into sitting with them at lunch. Afton is there, along with a few other girls. One is Caroline, the girl who stopped by our dorm room on my first day. There are boys, too, but I stick to the opposite side of the table, away from their loud, deep voices and erratic movements. One boy is Vandy’s brother, and the other’s her boyfriend, Reyn.
Without really wanting to, I watch the couple, fascinated by how they touch one another. It’s constant—arms brushing, fingertips grazing, sharing food. Once, when I look under the table for my dropped fork, I see his hand skating up her thigh, under the hem of her skirt.
When I straighten back up, I glance away, hoping no one can see the pink of my cheeks. I’m not a prude—far from it. Christ, I’m a river rat, born and bred. Skinny dipping is in our blood. But the sight of his fingers gliding up her thigh—slow, intentional, painfully intimate—right in the middle of a public lunch bustle makes something inside of me squirm.
My eyes land on a familiar head of blond hair a few tables away. He sits with other boys who are as loud and brash as he is. In that moment, our eyes meet. His are stone cold and aloof, passing over me like I’m no one. Nothing. I’m only worried about the heat on my face. Does he notice? Can he tell that my skin feels like it’s on fire? If he does, he doesn’t reveal it, turning back to his friends. I want to say that I forget him, ignore him, but I don’t. Even here in the dull roar of the dining hall, I find myself tracking him—his hands, his movements. He’s constantly gesturing, touching, hands curling into fists and releasing, so easily. Hands that can break. Hands that can hurt. My skin itches, just watching how easy it is for him. He’s wild and carefree. Impulsive and unrestrained.
He’s the opposite of everything I am.
“So, Sugar, you in for Friday night?” Georgia asks, drawing my attention back to the table.
“In for…” I raise an eyebrow, hoping no one notices my distraction. Or the source of it. One look at Vandy proves she’s too engrossed in Reyn to notice anything else. Maybe because of where and what his hands are doing at the moment. Shit. Now my face is red again. Who does that at the lunch table?
“The guys are all into these ‘car shows',” she says, using finger quotes. “I don’t know why they call them that.”
“Because,” Afton chimes in. I didn’t even know she was listening. “Basically, it’s a bunch of guys showing off their cars and driving like maniacs. It may as well be a dick-measuring contest.”