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at the studio.

My painting's brown eyes bored into mine, begging for me to add the finishing touches and be done. However, my brain was moving at one hundred miles per hour and I knew I wouldn't get anything productive done if I sat down.

Yeah, I found Elijah attractive. Who didn't?

He was gorgeous and kind. So annoyingly kind, considering how popular he was.

But I didn't like the profound feeling blooming deep inside of me. It ebbed and flowed throughout my body and mind, but swelled in my stomach. I hadn't noticed how strong it was until Elijah walked away from me this afternoon, and I haven't been able to rid the feeling since.

I heard footsteps approaching.

My hands fell to my side, and I sprinted to my stool like I ran track. I didn't run track.

Picking up my pallet, I dipped my brush into a clump of white paint and blew out a shaky breath to steady myself and pretended I'd been painting this entire time. I was as cool as a cucumber—on the outside.

Two knocks, and then Elijah entered. "Hey, you're here."

I glanced across the room before he noticed me looking. My heart rate sped up, and I lowered my face. "Hi, midterm project due next week," I said, motioning to the canvas.

"Right." He set his backpack on a chair and pulled his sweatshirt off. "It's coming along great."

I didn't turn around as he approached my easel and waited for his move.

His left hand gripped the side of my stool, barely grazing my upper thigh, and his chest brushed against my back, causing my spine to stiffen. I gnawed on the inside of my cheek, trying to subdue my breathing because if I took the breath I needed to fill my lungs, I'd gasp.

"It looks finished to me." his voice tickled my ear.

"It's getting there. I still have a lot of details to add that will pull everything together."

His chin hovered over my right shoulder, with pursed lips and squinted eyes, he observed my painting. I liked the way he looked at my art like he was standing in Louvre admiring hundred-year-old work.

"Why is she sad?

His question made me look forward.

The female's eyes sagged, the corner of her lips drooped into a pout. Her cheekbones were hollow and the blue hues I scattered throughout the canvas made the painting seem cold. For not being able to paint portraits, I was semi-proud of what I'd accomplished.

"I don't know, we had to choose an emotion, and this is what I naturally ended up painting."

He looked at me, our faces inches apart.

It was silent, except for the rattling of pipes. He scanned my face, just like he had done with my work, and I wondered what was running through his head. I ignored my undulating muscles. Like all other post-practice encounters, he smelled clean, with a hint of salt from lingering sweat.

Then he walked away.

What game was he playing?

Finally gulping down air, I said, "Glad to see they fixed the windows."

The construction company had finished putting in the new window, which was reinforced with thicker glass. Now there was nothing to obstruct the view of the empty field and rose-colored sunset that dusted the sky.

"It's been long enough."

"How was practice?"

"It was okay." He sounded uninterested, and I couldn't tell if it was my small talk or the baseball topic causing it, so I stopped.

We worked without talking and the jittery feeling he stirred up earlier was gone, replaced by impatience. Friday's party continued tormenting my thoughts and I couldn't fight my nosiness, so instead, I asked, "Do you like drawing?"

The squeaky sound of the pain roller stopped. "Drawing?"

"I saw you carrying sketches today."

"Oh, those? I was just bored."

"Just bored? Those were incredible for being bored." From what I saw earlier, it wasn't landscape or portraits, it looked like architecture. "You sure you don't have some creativity lurking inside?" I asked, wiping my messy fingers on a rag.

His lip turned upward, then fell into a straight line as if reality slapped him. "No, definitely not." There was a hint of sadness laced in his words, and I didn't expect my heart to hurt.

It took a moment for him to speak. "Do you know what you want to do after graduation?"

His question took me by surprise. "I think what I want differs from what'll I'll have."

The stillness of the room made me stop what I was doing and look over. Elijah sat on a table facing the wall he had just finished painting. I'd noticed none of his teammates were here to help. They hadn't been from the start. Was he okay? I wondered, yet the hunch in his shoulders told me everything I needed to know.

"What about you?"

He chuckled, but there was no humor behind it. "I have no clue."

I paused. "Do you want to talk about whatever is upsetting you?"

He spun around, the same expression that branded his face during the party was on his face now. For a moment, I thought he was about to tell me what was wrong, and held my breath in anticipation.

"Can I have your number?"

I choked on my saliva. "My number?"

"Yes, Sadie." His chest shook. "Your number."

Nerves exploded throughout my body like a flower in full bloom. He wanted my number? That was the last thing I expected him to ask. I knew my face was red, so I glanced at my hands covered in a rainbow of paint.

Footsteps followed as he sauntered toward me.

He sat at the table to my left. His hands gripped the edge on either side of his body, and he cocked his head to the side, his pupils dilating. The playfulness in his eyes was gone, there was a look of hunger. My nerves increased tenfold.

I couldn't tell if he genuinely wanted my number for himself, or because he wanted what Jayce had. It was an easy pissing contest waiting to happen. Whatever issues were going on between them, I didn't want to be a part of them. Sadie Garner, an invisible art student, was thrust into the baseball team's radar by a home run.

My thoughts vanished when his fingers twirled the hair framing my face.

My back straightened. He was too close for me to hide my fluster, and from the way the corner of his mouth lifted, I knew he saw directly through my stoic exterior. Shit, act like your stomach isn't in shambles.

"Is this how you get all of your girls?" I asked quietly.

A low rumble reverberated in his throat. "All of my girls? How many do you think I have?"

"As the captain of the baseball team, and after watching that girl dance on you..." I pretended to be deep in thought. "Many."

His thumb moved from my hair to my cheekbone, and I went still. His sudden change in attitude confused me, but his touch made me giddy. It was like my body was a tug-of-war rope: one end was my heart longing for love and the other was my brain trying to protect myself.

My brain was screaming this was all a part of his nice guy act.

"So?" he pressed, his touch leaving burning strokes.

"The thing is, I don't want to just be another one of those girls."

I watched his eyes narrow, then his hand fell to his side. He rubbed his knees and pushed himself from the table. Whatever tethered us together was severed. In return, he was building his walls back up and gathering his belongings.

My face faltered. "Where are you going?"

"I've got somewhere to be."

"Elijah." I hurried in front of him.

He stopped walking. I took in his smile that didn't reach his eyes as looked down at me and said, "It's okay, Sadie. I understand."

The heavy door clanked shut.

What the hell just happened?

I've been alone in the studio hundreds of times, but the usual comforting silence felt eerie. The walls, which felt large, were not as big as I remembered. And my brain, that screaming at me earlier, was silenced, replaced by my howling heart as it scolded me for my and Elijah's pitiful conversation.

The thing was, Elijah misunderstood me, or took my comment too literally.

I wanted his number, though I didn't want to be one of his girls. Because if we would ever amount to anything, I wouldn't settle for being another tally mark in his book of women. I would never settle for that, no matter who it was.

Because I've already been a score in someone else's book.

It's been etched into my skin ever since, reminding me it takes nothing for another human being to be used by somebody else.

Taking a deep breath, I skimmed the room over and packed up instead of forcing myself to finish a painting I had no desire to work on. At the door, where Elijah's backpack sat earlier, were the sketches. I picked them up and studied the lines and arches he had drawn. It was a beautiful Georgian-style house, with pillars and a wrap-around balcony.

There were even measurements listed beside the walls. This was incredible for only being a sketch, something well thought out. I figured he'd want them back, so I tucked them into my bag, then headed back to the apartment.

Ten minutes later, I burst through our front door and saw Reva curled up on the couch with a book I lent her. She sat up, facing me with a beaming smile. "Hey."

"Hi." I tossed my stuff on the floor and flung myself into the armchair. "How was bingo?"

"So much fun! Penelope won a gift card to The Coffee Shack and invited me on another date."

My brows rose. "Another date? How many dates does it take until it's official?"

She chuckled. "We both haven't talked about labels since we only just met."

"And to think you were nervous," I teased, and she chucked a pillow at my face that I caught. "Seriously though, I'm really happy you two are getting along so well."

It takes a lot for Reva to be completely smitten by someone, and Penelope has—in short—swept her off her feet. I can't wait to get to know her more, because I have a strong feeling she's not going anywhere soon.

Reva sank into the cushions. "Me too. How was the studio? Are you done with that menace of a project yet?"

I contemplated telling her what happened, except I didn't want anyone psychoanalyzing whatever the hell was going on between me and Elijah. That kid was more confusing than I anticipated.

"Nope. I need one more hour with it, then I'll be finished."

She clapped. "Exciting!"

Excited was an understatement.

Retreating to the shower, I scrubbed myself clean, neglecting to look in the mirror because I was in a foul mood, and knew if I took one look at my body, I'd probably end up crying. So, I climbed under my bedsheets, rubbing my freshly shaven legs together, and stared at the ceiling.

My phone laid at my side, untouched until it vibrated.

It vibrated again.

I sighed and wondered if I had given Elijah my number. What would he have texted me? Would he have sent the invite? I didn't think my words earlier would hurt him so much, but I wouldn't take them back because I meant what I said.

If I've learned anything about Elijah that was deeper than surface level, it was that he was a runner. Every negative encounter we've had has ended with him walking away. He didn't owe me anything, not even an explanation, given we barely know each other.

But with every half-step forward, we end up a step back at square one.

I was about to text Jayce back when a notification lit up my screen—

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[email protected]

[email protected]

Can't fall asleep.

Dear Van Gogh,

Did you know class rosters have school email addresses on them? Looks like Professor Kepler's class was good for something, after all.

Sincerely your Stalker,

Elijah

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I hugged my phone to my chest, completely taken aback.

I truly didn't know him at all.

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Sorry, this was a shorty & late. Hope you enjoyed it.

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annasteffeyy

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