Page 28 of Beyond the Lines (Pine Barren University #1)

sixteen

LEA

I slump deeper into my chair as my mom drones on about her latest patient—some guy with a rare blood disorder.

Normally, I’d put at least a little more effort into caring, but right now, her voice is just background noise to the constant loop of memories playing in my head.

Memories involving a certain hockey player.

“…and then the numbers came back completely normal! Can you imagine?” Mom pauses, obviously waiting for a response. “Leanndra?”

“That’s crazy,” I offer, despite having no idea what I’m agreeing with. “Really shows you life is short…”

“You’re not listening, Leanndra.” She sighs, and I can picture her pinching the bridge of her nose, the way she always does when I’m being particularly disappointing, which seems to be most of the time. “What’s going on? Is everything alright at school?”

“Everything’s fine, Mom.” I twist the cord of my headphones around my finger until the tip turns purple. “Just tired. Adjusting to college life, you know? ”

“Hmmm.” That single syllable contains at least seventeen layers of skepticism. “How are your classes going? You seemed excited about that drawing course?”

My stomach drops faster than an elevator with snapped cables.

Drawing class. Declan. His hands. His mouth. That bathroom.

Argh!

It’s been three days since the bathroom incident, and I’m fine. Totally fine. So fine that I’ve developed a new skill: the ability to sprint between buildings on campus while scanning for stupidly gorgeous six-foot-two hockey players. My cardio has never been better.

Nor has my appreciation for Em.

After my complete meltdown, she didn’t push for details beyond what I’d shared. Instead, she’s been running interference—checking dining hall entrances before we enter, creating elaborate routes between buildings to avoid Declan, and maintaining a supply of cinnamon cider and carbs.

Without her, I’d probably still be hiding in bed.

But, so far, I’ve managed to avoid seeing Declan, and mostly avoided thinking about him and his… everything. The clock is ticking, because our next scheduled catch-up for the project is tomorrow night, but that’s a problem for Future Lea that Present Lea is very happy to avoid for now.

“ Leanndra ,” my mom’s voice is even more frustrated this time, like I’m wasting her valuable time. “I’ve got patients soon…”

I squeeze my eyes shut, as if that might somehow block out my thoughts. It doesn’t. “The drawing class is…” Traumatic? Awkward? A literal hot mess? “…fine.”

“Just fine?” She tuts. “Although your grandmother always said life drawing classes were for unimaginative hacks. ”

And there it is—the inevitable comparison to my legendary grandmother.

“Yeah, well, she also thought wearing anything but black was a sign of moral weakness, so maybe her opinions weren’t gospel,” I say.

And regret the words as soon as they leave my mouth.

“Leanndra!” My mom’s voice sharpens. “Your grandmother was a visionary. She dropped?—”

“Dropped out of art school to stage her own exhibition, I know.” I recite the family legend by rote. “And gained enough notoriety that she was able to build a successful career where she frequently exhibited in Paris, London, Athens, Madrid, and New York.”

The silence on the other end crackles with disapproval.

“I’m sorry,” I sigh. “I didn’t mean to be disrespectful. The class is actually really challenging and interesting.”

And contains a six-foot-two hockey player who’s been haunting my dreams.

“Good. And what about your other classes? Are you keeping up with the reading in all of them?”

I let her steer the conversation to safer waters, detailing my other courses, my professors, and the ridiculous amount of reading assigned in my art history class. Anything to avoid talking about life drawing and the complicated mess that is Declan Andrews.

“And how’s your brother?” Mom drops the question I’ve been dreading. “He hasn’t been answering my texts. I just get those one-word responses.”

Shit.

I fiddle with my textbook, tracing the embossed letters on the cover. The truth is, I’ve been avoiding Mike just as much as I’ve been avoiding Declan. Every time my phone lights up with his name, I panic, imagining he somehow knows what happened in that bathroom.

“Mike’s great,” I lie, my voice unnaturally bright. “Busy with practice and stuff. The season’s ramping up.”

“Hmm.” There it is again, the skeptical hum that indicates she sees straight through me, while simultaneously being disappointed Mike is still choosing to play hockey. “Well, when you see him, tell him to call his mother. I’ve had patients under anesthesia with better communication skills.”

“Will do.” I cringe at how fake I sound.

“You are seeing him, right?” Mom presses, her doctor’s intuition sensing weakness in my response. “You two have always been so close…”

The guilt twists like a knife.

Mike and I have always been close.

And now I’m avoiding him because I hooked up with his teammate.

God, I’m the worst.

“I’m seeing him soon,” I say, which isn’t exactly a lie if you define ‘soon’ as ‘whenever I gather enough courage to face him.’ “We’ve both just been busy.”

“Good. Family is important, Leanndra. Especially when you’re adjusting to a new place.”

I make a vague noise of agreement, eager to end this conversation before she asks any more questions I can’t honestly answer. “Hey Mom, I’ve got a study group meeting in like fifteen minutes, so I should probably go…” I’m already closing my textbook, ready to make my escape.

“Alright,” she sighs. “Call me next week? And don’t forget to tell your brother to check his messages.”

“I will,” I lie, then hang up .

I know I need to see Mike, and that I can’t avoid him forever. I should text him now, but what would I even say?

Hey bro, want to hang out? I promise not to mention how I blew your teammate in a public bathroom. P.S. Mom says call her.

Yeah, no.

My phone buzzes, and I nearly fall off the bed reaching for it, half-hoping, half-terrified it’s Declan or Mike. But it’s Em:

Coast clear at Lower Dining. Hockey team @ away game. Operation Avoid Hot Headfuck is GO. Meet me for lunch at twelve?

I smile despite myself. Em’s code-named everything like we’re running some kind of black-ops mission instead of just avoiding my brother’s teammate. There’s something comforting about her treating the whole thing with such ridiculous seriousness.

I suddenly feel overwhelmed with gratitude for this girl who was a stranger just weeks ago and is now somehow essential to my survival. The roommate lottery gods were kind to me. Being unable to rely on Mike in this situation—for obvious reasons—has been hard, but Em has been a huge help.

I text back:

It’s a date.

I check the clock. I’ve still got two hours to kill before I meet with Em for lunch. And about thirty hours before tomorrow’s project meeting, which looms like a storm on the horizon—unavoidable, potentially destructive, and altogether terrifying.

I groan and bury my face in my pillow again. At this rate, the only way I’ll survive this semester is if I develop selective amnesia or transfer to a college on another continent.

I’ve been buying time, avoiding him and avoiding any contact, hoping that time and distance might dull the attraction and the tempest of emotions and doubt and fear and?—

Argh!

Maybe I just need a distraction. Something to take my mind off Declan Andrews and his stupid perfect everything, and his stupid way of making me feel things I’m not sure if I’m ready to feel again.

I look down at my blank sketchbook. Drawing. Drawing always clears my head. It’s my meditation, my therapy, and the place where I can put all the chaos of my feelings when they get too loud to handle.

And right now?

My feelings are a fucking orchestra.

I just need to draw something .

Anything to stop this endless loop of bathroom tiles and stubble and hands?—

Nope.

I grab my pencil and start with loose, rapid strokes. No planning, no thinking, and no intent to do anything with this art except feel . Just shapes. Color. Movement. Energy. Lines that have nothing to do with blue eyes or strong hands or the taste of?—

Goddammit.

But as the lines flow onto the page, curves and angles taking shape under my fingertips, I realize I’m drawing hands. Strong hands with knuckles that are slightly red and cracked. Hockey hands. And a face. A very specific face. With a stubbled jaw. With intense eyes that see too much.

I flip the page violently.

Apparently, my subconscious is a traitor.

“No!” I slam the sketchbook shut. “What is wrong with me?”

But I know exactly what’s wrong with me. I’m attracted to a guy who lied to me, who ripped my art apart in class, who is my brother’s teammate, and who I subsequently let go downtown on me in a public bathroom and then reciprocated. And the most fucked-up part?

I want him to do it again.

I open my sketchbook to a new page, grip my pencil so tightly my knuckles turn white, and start drawing with furious strokes. If I can’t stop thinking about it, maybe I can draw it out of my system.

The lines are harsh, almost violent. I’m not thinking anymore, just feeling.

Letting the raw emotion flow through my fingers onto the paper.

Before I realize it, I’ve drawn us in that bathroom.

Not realistically—I’m not ready to see that—but as an abstract explosion of tangled lines and shadowy forms.

Two bodies melting into each other.

Tension and release.

The drawing is chaos and urgency. It’s filthy and beautiful. Frantic pencil strokes capture hands grabbing, mouths meeting, and bodies pressing. I can almost hear our ragged breathing echoing off the bathroom tiles, and taste the salt of his skin.

I keep drawing, unable to stop now. Adding darker shades, more pressure. The graphite smears under my palm as I work faster, messier, giving physical form to the storm inside me. And soon, one drawing isn’t enough. I turn the page and start another sketch.