Page 30 of Things We Left Behind

He was even cuter up close.

Wait. No, not cute.Gorgeous.

His hair was thick and dark and curled a little at the ends. He had a straight nose and high cheekbones that were so defined, Mrs. Clawser chose him as the model for portrait drawing in art class. Becky Bunton said Lucian had taken hisshirt off and Mrs. Clawser had to stand in front of her hot flash fan for ten straight minutes.

Of course, Beckyalsoclaimed that her uncle invented JanSport book bags, so you had to take her claims with a grain of salt.

Lucian was tall with an athletic build that filled out his worn jeans and a long-­sleeve Knockemout football shirt in a way that leaned more toward man than boy.

Was it getting hot in here? Did I need a hot flash fan?

I hadn’t had sex yet. I wanted my first time to be with someone who made me feel like a heroine in a book. Someone who could sweep me off my feet and make me feel special and good, not sweaty and awkward in the back seat of an ancient Toyota like Becky’s first time.

Lucian, with his muscly forearms and romantic hair, would make a girl feel that way. Special. Important.

How was I supposed to date boys in my own league when presented with this specimen? My dating options were restricted to the lower tier of high school guys. Like a member of the stage crew or maybe one of the slower boys on the track team.

But none of them measured up to my gorgeous next-­door neighbor.

It wasn’t just his looks. Lucian moved through the halls of Knockemout High with a knowing confidence that the crowds would part around him. I, on the other hand, scurried from gap to gap, staring at the backs and shoulders of the entire student body.

Lucian cleared his throat and I blinked.

I’d been staring at him for a very long time. Long enough that he’d taken a seat on the bench at the foot of my bed and was staring back. Expectantly.

“Uh, do you want a soda or something?” I asked, not sure what I’d do if he said yes. My parents were downstairs, and they would be sure to notice me sneaking two root beers upstairs. Unlike the parents on TV, mine didn’t miss a thing.

“No, thanks,” he said, eyeing my trig homework. He pickedup the top sheet of paper, the one I’d scrawled “This is stupid. I hate math.” all over.

I snatched it out of his hand and crumpled it behind my back.

I was smart. That was my thing. Put me in an English class or history or science and I was a guaranteed straight A student. But math was a different story.

“I could help you,” he said, reaching behind me and taking the paper back.

“You’re good at math?” I couldn’t quite keep the incredulity out of my tone.

“You think just because I play football I can’t be smart too?”

Actually, I’d been thinking that in this scenario, I should be the hot athlete’s tutor who he couldn’t help falling in love with during intimate study sessions. But this could work too.

“Of course not,” I scoffed.

“Then give me a pencil.” He held out a hand, and for a second, I battled the fantasy of simply putting my hand in his…and then jumping into his lap and kissing him.

But I wasn’t confident in my balance. What if I kneed him in the crotch or knocked the wind out of him?

Good sense won out, and I picked up my pink mechanical pencil from the carpet and handed it over.

“Come here,” he said, sliding down to the floor and patting the spot next to him.

I sat obediently.

“You had the first part right,” he said, retracing my steps with the pencil. “But here’s where you went wrong.”

I sat next to him and watched his big hand move the pink pencil over the sheet. Leave it to Lucian Rollins to make math sexy.

“Wow. You really are smart,” I said when he circled the answer.