Page 13 of Scars of Anatomy

Bet

“Have a good weekend, class,” Professor Hobb dismisses us.

“Ready to get this wild Friday night started?” I ask Olivia, slinging on my backpack.

“I don’t know. You think you can handle it?” she teases.

“Try me, Finch.” I smirk.

A blush blossoms on her cheeks. “Don’t worry, I’m sure you’ve had much wilder nights.”

“That may be true,” I muse. I place my hand on her desk, leaning in to be eye level with her, inches away from her face. “So I guess I’m down for anything,” I say, giving her a wink, my voice low and playful.

Her cheeks turn red and she pulls her gaze away from mine, quickly stuffing the rest of her belongings into her backpack. I can’t help but chuckle, pulling away and leaning back against my desk to give her some space.

“Ready?” I ask as soon as she’s finished packing her things.

She nods, still clearly bashful after my forward flirting.

We walk out of the language arts building and into the late summer heat. Olivia’s dressed in her usual T-shirt and jeans combo. Today her shirt is as yellow as the sun, and I have to admit, yellow looks good on her. The color really complements her hair and eyes.

“What?” I hear her ask, her voice shy, and I realize she’s looking at me.

Damn . She must have caught me staring.

“Yellow’s your color,” I admit honestly, causing her to blush once more. “I know powder blue is your favorite color, but yellow looks really good on you.”

Her brows furrow and she briefly stops in her tracks. “How do you know that’s my favorite color?” she asks, doing that adorable little head tilt thing.

“It’s kind of obvious, Finch. Your backpack, your room, just little things.”

Her head jerks back in surprise, an emotion washing over her face that I can’t quite decipher. After a moment, a smile tugs at her lips and she bows her head to hide it from me, brushing past me to lead us to the library.

We jog up the building’s stairs, and I make sure to grab the door for her.

The place is fairly empty, given it’s a Friday and pretty much everyone wants to get the hell out of here after their classes are over.

Normally that would be me, but Olivia suggested we have our first study session, and I didn’t have the heart to tell her no.

She’s already accommodating me enough, working around my crazy football schedule.

She leads us to a back table, walking confidently, like she’s been here a million times before. I’ve only been here once, maybe twice my whole college career.

She takes a seat across from me and pulls out her books. “Do you want to start with the lab material first or lecture?”

“Lab is fine,” I say, hoping I can remember some of the material from Wednesday so I don’t look like a complete moron.

“Okay,” she says, grabbing her lab manual and flipping the pages to this week’s lesson. “I’ll let you study the figures for a few minutes and then quiz you on them.”

I nod, getting to work.

For about ten minutes she lets me look over the material—bones of the hand and arm as well as muscles of the arm. She uses Post-it notes to hide the answers from me, pointing at the figures and having me name what she’s pointing to. She starts out easy and then it gets more difficult.

“Triquetrum.”

Shit, where is that again?

I look at the figure, blanking. I look down at my own hand, thinking maybe somehow that will help. When I don’t know it, I take a wild guess.

“Not quite,” Olivia says, correcting me. “Abductor pollicis longus.”

The what now?

I look at my arm, trying to envision where the hell it would be. When I come up short, I look up at her helplessly. “I have no clue.”

She bites the inside of her cheek, looking pensive as her eyes shift from mine to my arm. “Can we try something?” she asks.

“Is this where our Friday night starts to get wild?” I tease with a grin.

She shoots me a bland look, but I can tell she’s biting back a laugh. Grabbing some highlighters and a pen, she stands and walks over to my side of the table. She takes the seat next to me, pulling her chair closer to mine, and tucks one leg under her.

I’m suddenly hyperaware of her presence, how close she is to me. I get a whiff of her vanilla perfume when she loops her arm through mine, using both of her hands to position my arm. When she has my hand flat on the table, she grabs a pen and starts drawing and writing on my hand.

She looks up at me through her long lashes, her face so close to mine I can almost feel her breath on my skin. “Is this okay?” she asks, her voice small and sounding almost nervous.

“More than okay.”

She gets back to drawing on my hand and eventually moves up my arm.

When she’s finished with the bones, she flips my arm over to start on my forearm. Pink highlighter starts at my wrist, slowly traveling upward, but then she stops.

I look down to see that she’s stopped at a small, pink, risen circular scar on my arm, and my blood instantly turns cold.

I have similar scars scattered all up my arm from one of my mom’s ex-boyfriends.

He was a drug addict and a drunk who didn’t like it much that my mom had a kid.

He despised me, and whenever I would act up, or when he was just angry in general, he would grab me by the back of my shirt, hold me down, and stub his cigarettes out on my arm.

Just thinking of the pain makes my hand involuntarily clench into a fist.

Olivia stares for a moment, a flash of sadness and knowing in her eyes.

Normally, whenever I catch someone staring at my scars, I get angry, defensive, but with her I feel ashamed. I don’t want my miserable past to tarnish her image of me.

I’m used to people staring at my scars and asking about them, and every time I snap or immediately shut them out. It’s not like they care. They just want to know the sob story behind them so they can rub it in my face and belittle everything I’ve fought to overcome to get to where I am today.

But with her, somehow, deep down, I find myself wanting her to ask, to care, even though I don’t want her to know the truth.

Olivia blinks slowly a few times, composing herself before running the highlighter up and over the scar, like it’s not even there, passing all the others just the same.

When she’s finished labeling my arm she silently stands and moves back to her seat across from me.

“All right, let’s get started,” she says, and just like that, it’s like my scars are forgotten.

Weirdly enough, I can’t tell if I’m more relieved or disappointed that she didn’t ask about them.

I let out a low whistle. “I think that’s one of the wildest Fridays I’ve had in a long time,” I joke, stuffing my hands in the front pockets of my jeans as Olivia and I walk out of the library together.

Olivia laughs, pulling her phone out of her back pocket and typing out a quick text.

Our first study session went really well—aside from the whole scar situation. I actually ended up learning a lot, Olivia putting concepts in perspective for me by using my own body as an example.

“So are you going to keep the party going?” she asks, stuffing her phone back into her pocket.

I shrug. “Dunno. Why, you got something in mind?” I smile.

She laughs, and just as she’s about to answer, a black Chevy Equinox pulling up to the curb steals her attention. The passenger-side window rolls down and her mom comes into view.

“Hi, Bronx,” she greets me, giving a wave.

I walk Olivia over to her car. “Hi, Mrs. McCausland. How are you?”

“Good. Did you kids have fun? Well, as much fun as you can while studying.”

I chuckle. “Yeah, Olivia’s a great teacher,” I say, shooting Olivia a smile, making her blush.

“Any plans for the weekend?” Mrs. McCausland asks, making small talk.

“Not really, just football.”

“Any big plans for tonight?” Olivia asks.

“Not really, no,” I admit. There’s probably some sort of party going on, but I’ve been there, done that a hundred times.

“Well, if you want, Dad is firing up the grill tonight and there will be more than enough food,” she says, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, appearing nervous.

“Oh, what a wonderful idea!” her mother says, beaming from the car.

“Are you sure?” I ask Olivia.

“Yeah. You must be sick of eating cruddy campus food all the time.”

“You got that right,” I say.

“Perfect! I just have to make a quick grocery run before I go home. I don’t know if you kids want to go with me or . . .” Mrs. McCausland trails off.

“That’s okay,” I say. “I can drive us so you can get your shopping done.”

“Are you sure you don’t mind?” she asks, looking guilty.

“Positive.” I smile.

“We’ll meet you at the house,” Olivia says, waving goodbye to her mother.

When the Equinox pulls away, I lead Olivia across campus to the parking lot, where we hop into Chase’s truck.

“I had a lot of fun tonight,” I tell Olivia, leaning against Chase’s truck, which is parked in her driveway. I just got done saying goodbye to her parents after having dinner and watching the game with her dad, and Olivia offered to walk me out. It’s almost ten now and I figure I better get going.

“I’m glad.” She smiles, crossing her arms over her chest to ward off the cool evening breeze. “And it’s nice seeing my dad talk to an actual person instead of the TV while watching a game.” She giggles.

“You still haven’t learned much about football, have you?”

She gives me a sheepish look.

“Finch, Finch, Finch.” I tsk , shaking my head. It’s then I come up with an idea. “Come to my game tomorrow,” I say.

She looks at me hesitantly. “I don’t know . . . maybe.”

“That doesn’t sound convincing.” I am determined to get her to at least one of my games this semester. “What do you say we make this tutoring thing a bit more interesting?” I suggest, smirking and leaning farther into the truck, crossing my arms and ankles.

Her brows pinch together. “What do you mean?”

“How about we make a bet?”

She looks at me skeptically. “And what kind of bet are you thinking about?” she asks, a hint of a challenge in her voice.

“If I do well on this next test, you have to go to the homecoming game.”

She purses her lips thoughtfully, nodding. “Define well.”

“I have to get a C.”

She shakes her head. “C plus,” she counters.

“Fine,” I agree. “C plus and you come to the homecoming game . . . and wear my jersey.”

Her eyes nearly bug out of her head. “No way.”

“Aww, c’mon, Finch,” I plead, laying the charm on thick and giving her my best puppy dog pout. I push up off the truck and take two steps to be toe-to-toe with her. “You’d look really good in my jersey,” I say softly, almost seductively.

I hear her sharp intake of breath, and she takes a step back. “Bronx . . .”

“Please,” I beg, batting my lashes.

She nervously chews the bottom corner of her lip. “Okay,” she says slowly. “Fine.” But before I can victoriously pump my fists in the air she cuts in and adds, “Only if you get a C plus on the test and a C on every lab quiz until then.”

I feel myself deflate, shoulders slumping. I’m about to negotiate, but the look she shoots me says her decision is final.

I sigh. “You drive a hard bargain, Finch, but you got yourself a deal.” I stick my hand out to shake on it, and before she can let go, I playfully jerk her forward and she stumbles into me.

Her palms land flat on my chest to stabilize herself.

“You’re going to look great in my jersey,” I whisper huskily into her ear.

Those honey-colored eyes widen in shock as they look up at me, and her cheeks burn red. She quickly regains her balance and takes a step back, clearly flustered, making me chuckle.

She clears her throat, tucking some hair behind her ear. “Don’t get too cocky,” she says, trying to humble me.

“Don’t act like you’re not dying to wear my jersey,” I tease, advancing on her.

Her eyes widen and she takes a step back, ready to bolt.

In a playful mood, I lunge forward, and a surprised squeal escapes her lips. On bare feet, she turns and runs up the pathway to her front door. Before she can reach the porch, I wrap my arm around her waist, pulling her back into my chest and lifting her off the ground.

“Bronx!” she yells, laughing uncontrollably.

I can’t help but chuckle, setting her back down on the porch. She turns around, almost eye level with me now that she’s a step up.

“Good night, Finch,” I say, backing away slowly to the truck.

“Good night,” she says, smiling. “Get back safe.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I say, taking the keys out of my back pocket and spinning them around my finger. “See you Monday.”

“See you Monday. Feel free to study,” she calls, making me laugh.

She stands on her porch until I’ve backed out of her driveway, giving me one final wave goodbye.

As soon as I’m about to pull out of her subdivision my phone chimes with a text. I quickly glance at the screen to see it’s from Chase.

Chase: Yo, you coming to Goldman’s party or what?

I quickly type back that I’m on my way, and pull up to Goldman’s ten minutes later. I make sure to lock the truck before I walk up the steps and into a house that’s thumping from the bass of the speakers.

Walking into the kitchen, I grab a beer from the fridge and make my way to the dining room, knowing I’ll find Chase and some of the guys at the beer pong tables.

“Hey, man.” I clap hands with Chase as soon as I find him.

“Dude, what the fuck is all over your arm?” he asks, staring at all the ink on my arm.

I can’t help but smile, taking a swig of my beer. “Anatomy.”