“Fuuck,” Lucas breathes out, sinking his gaze to his lap, then out his window.
“She’d find out eventually,” I say, ignoring the hammering in my chest that warns me bad shit is coming my way.
“Yeah,” Lucas hums. His already tight face is now tighter.
“Does she know about MIT?” I ask, and he quickly shakes his head.
“She doesn’t know shit,” he says, flashing his gaze to mine quickly for reassurance.
I spare a quick glance in her direction to see if she’s still lingering, but she already moved on. Her tiny form punches harsh steps into the ground as she marches down the main walkway into school.
“I’ll see you at lunch,” I say over my shoulder before opening his truck and sliding to the ground. I hoist my bag over my shoulder, giving Lucas one last glance.
“I wish you were still in my first hour,” he says before I shut the door, and even though I do, too, I’m also glad he misses me being there.
I smile and ponder how much I want this day to go smoothly for him as I head on my way to the independent study room. Even though he said Ava Pryor doesn’t know shit, I can’t help but constantly scan my landscape on the lookout for her. That bitch is a sniper, I swear.
The lunch bell blares, and I practically leap from my seat, my legs having primed themselves with nervous bouncing for the last twenty minutes. My stride is so long that I get to the gate at the front of the school well before Lucas shows up, so I walk near the office and check a few texts on my phone to avoid eye contact with any of the teachers or administrators. There’s a single text from my mom that I can’t get myself to open. I’ve only seen the preview, and the beginning words make me feel pretty terrible.
June, I am worried sick. Please just tell me . . .
I assume it goes on to say “that you’re all right.” I am all right. Ish. I’m also a lot wrong. And a whole lot confused and angry.
“Psst,” a hushed voice sounds from behind me. I turn to see Lucas walking up, his tall, muscular body looking like an elite work of art in black pants and a crisp white shirt with rolled-up sleeves. The gray tie that I can tell he made a few attempts at hangs loose around his neck. He lifts his chin as he approaches, so I drop my bag at my feet and reach up to grab the satin ends.
“These things are tricky,” I say through a wide smile. He’s so handsome right now, my mind has become complete goo. I’m not sure whether I want to straighten his tie, or lick him.
“I fucking hate ties. They choke me,” he complains, swallowing hard and stretching out his collar with the movement of his neck.
“You’re a big man,” I say, blushing at my words, my focus on the work my hands are doing with the tie. I catch the smirk playing on his lips, so I playfully bat at his chest.
“Shush, or I won’t help you,” I say.
A gravelly laugh leaves his chest.
I get the knot just right on the first try, which is impressive since I haven’t tied one of these since my father left. I tug a few times to get the line of it straight, tucking the back tail into the loop on the back of the front one. I fold his collar down and brush away a tiny bit of lint. He smells like soap and vanilla. I’m almost certain his mom pressed this shirt for him this morning. Her towels always smelled just like this; I remember from the times I went over to swim.
“There,” I say, bashfully glancing up at him. He looks down at me with a coy smile, and for the first time maybe ever, I believe in my gut that this boy is truly smitten with me, as much as I am with him.
“Wish me luck,” he says.
I shake my head.
“You don’t need it. Break a leg,” I offer instead. He laughs with a short eye roll and then grabs the open gate as one of the late-start seniors walks through.
“Ready?” he asks. I hold his keys in my palm and jingle them.
“Let’s do this,” I say. I let him walk out first, his strides long and purposeful toward the middle of the lot, the same direction he went the last time I saw him do this. The red car sticks out, though I think only to me, and because I’m looking for it. I pieced it together when he told me he already met with the representative a few times.
Today’s interview is at a nearby restaurant, with two other admissions deans. Our principal knows he’s leaving for it, and Lucas said he understands the sensitivity of keeping this a secret from his coach. I’m not sure he knows about me, though, so I don’t dawdle. I jog toward Lucas’s truck in an effort to get there unnoticed. But I don’t make it without at least one person seeing me. I don’t see her coming at all, or the fist she sends into my nose like a rocket.
Ava fucking Pryor just punched me, and I’m pretty sure she spit on me too. I’m in a fit of rage, and all I want to do is drive every ounce of my body right through hers, flattening her ass on the pavement. But that would make a scene. Teachers would come running, and people would spot me out here at Lucas’s truck, with his keys, while he’s on a covert mission to live his best life without interference from the people who want to run it for him. Goddamn, my face hurts, and my pride hurts a shit-ton more, but I have loved Lucas Fuller longer than I’ve hated Ava Pryor. So for him, I wipe my bloody nose along the sleeve of my sweatshirt and get in his truck, firing it up and peeling out to head to Two-fers, where I hope they have a lot of fucking napkins.
Chapter Nineteen
There really isn’t an easy way to mask a black eye. There’s also a chance my nose is broken. I’m honestly kind of impressed with Ava’s form. She hit me good, a nice shot, square up on the bone, causing my right eye to swell shut.
I spend my entire lunch hour in the Two-fer’s bathroom. I know I’m supposed to go through the drive-thru so nobody can tell for sure who’s driving, but I’m such a mess. And now, I’m the proud owner of a Two-fers long-sleeve T-shirt. I bought the red one because I might as well be prepared for the next bloody nose.
There isn’t a way for me to hide this from Lucas. I have to give him his keys, but the plan is to be super discreet on his way into the locker room. Maybe he’ll be in such a hurry he won’t have time to ask questions. What I don’t count on is Tory.
“Maybe Mabee, wonder what you’re hanging around here for,” Tory teases as he jogs up the ramp to the locker room entrance. I’m sitting on the middle of the steps that rise up the opposite side, my right eye facing away from view.
Tory isn’t shy with me. He moves up the steps and sits with his back resting on the opposite wall, our feet practically touching. He stretches his toes forward, tapping the sole of his shoe into mine. I do my best to look at him sideways, but when he mocks my weird posture and side-eyes, I give in and get it over with.
“Damn! You get in a fight, Mabee?”
I shrug it off, but his eyes linger on the puffy side of my face, and I can only bluff that it’s no big deal for so long. When his eyes narrow, I glean that he’s probably piecing it together. I don’t have more than one enemy. Hell, I only have a handful of friends.
“Ava do that shit to you?” He knows; I can tell by his tone.
I tip my chin just a little.
“Hope you fucked her shit up right back,” he says, leaning forward and moving to the step above me to inspect my eye more closely. “You need to get a cold compress on that. I can get something in the training room.”