Put Me Back Together (12 page)

He picked me up at seven thirty after I’d spent a humiliating amount of time picking out what to wear. I’d settled finally on the sweater and jeans I’d been wearing all day because lord knew what a person was supposed to wear to a sports game, anyway. Besides, I didn’t have to look nice. This wasn’t a date after all.

I repeated this to myself a lot, both in my head and out loud to the cat as he lay purring on my pile of discarded clothes.

This. Isn’t. A. Date.

Although it did kind of feel like one when he rang the buzzer and I met him at the door. His hair was slightly wet, as though he’d just washed it, and I could smell his cologne as he held the door open. His blue pea coat, which made him look a little like a sailor, was smartly buttoned. He’d shaved. He looked like a shiny new penny, while I looked like that crumpled five-dollar bill you found in the bottom of your pocket after it had gone through the wash.

Great.

I wondered if he could tell that no guy had ever come to pick me up before, that no one ever buzzed my apartment, not even Emily, who had her own key. I wondered if he could tell how incredibly nervous I was, and then I realized that he probably could, since I was still standing on the upper step near the door, staring at him, without having said a word. Although it’s also worth pointing out that he was standing two steps below me staring back, and he hadn’t said a word, either.

It was as though we were both in some kind of dream state where time moved more slowly and all social conventions, like conversation, were suspended.

His eyes swept over my face languidly and then moved upward to my hair, which I’d shoved into a messy bun on top of my head.

“I like your hair like that,” he said, and actually reached out as though he wanted to touch it, but I caught his fingers just as they reached the level of my face and gently pushed them away.

No. This was not a dream I wanted to have.

“Are we late?” I said, jogging down the stairs ahead of him and heading for the street, effectively breaking our joint daydream.

He easily caught up with me and took my arm, placing it over his. And I let him, because it was cold, and…well, because it felt nice. But that was okay, because it was the type of thing friends did, wasn’t it? I suddenly realized I had no idea what guys and girls who were friends did.

“Well, are you ready to attend a friendly game of basketball, Hero?” he asked, steering us down the sidewalk toward his car. “Because this is a friendly night, the type of night I would only share with a friend. And I want you to know I can only ever be your friend. I think it’s important that we both understand that. Don’t you think so, friend?”

So apparently he’d heard my whole “friend” tirade loud and clear.

I glared up at him as we reached his car, a battered red Civic with a big dent in the passenger’s side door.

“I definitely think so,” I said with more confidence than I was actually feeling as he let go of my arm and stepped toward me, causing me to lean back against the door.

I saw a twinkle in his eyes as he moved forward, placing his hands against the car window on either side of my body. I felt my breath catch in my throat and a thrill rise up from my belly as the front of our coats brushed against each other and he leaned in.

“That’s good,” he said into my ear, my cheek growing warm just from the knowledge that his was centimeters away. I could hear the smile in his voice. “Because I wouldn’t want there to be any confusion.”

He pulled his face back and looked me in the eye. Our faces were lined up perfectly for a kiss, and I felt my body betraying me, my face moving toward his without my permission, my senses awakening with something new.

Desire.

My lips trembled, though I tried to still them. As much as I wanted him, I was also terribly afraid. This wouldn’t be just any kiss. It would be my first.

I held my breath, waiting, as his eyes dipped to my lips and then his face changed, his eyes zipping back up to mine with a question in them that I couldn’t read. Suddenly he was all business and movement. He pulled me toward him—more like a jerk, really—and yanked the car door open, then ran his hands roughly up and down my arms, as one would a child who had stayed out too long playing in the snow.

“Cold, isn’t it?” he said with forced enthusiasm, and gestured for me to get in as he ran around to the driver’s side.

“Sure is,” I replied as I climbed in and buckled my seat belt. I was still in a little bit of shock, all my emotions jumbled and jumping and disorderly.

As he drove us toward the Athletics Centre, keeping his eyes firmly glued to the road, I tried to console myself with the fact that I’d been right. Lucas and I were just friends. Because when he’d had his chance, he’d come this close and changed his mind. It was a good thing I’d put the kibosh on the whole boyfriend idea that morning. It was smart of me, really. Wasn’t I so clever? Wasn’t it so wonderful to be right?

Except that it wasn’t.

Being right had never felt so awful.

The gym was crowded and bright and loud. Having never been to a game, any game, before, I hadn’t known what to expect, but the noise was the biggest surprise. I wondered how the players could stand it. I thought to ask Lucas, but I didn’t much feel like talking to him right then, and he didn’t look like he was up for a discussion, either. In fact, he looked downright ill.

“Hold on a minute,” he said as we walked through the gym doors. They were the first words he’d spoken since our moment by the car.

He’d stopped in his tracks just inside the doorway, and as I walked back toward him I saw him swallowing hard, as though he was trying to get down a particularly large pill.

“You’re
not
going to throw up, do you hear me?” I said as I pulled him toward the bleachers. In the short ten minutes it had taken us to drive here and walk into the building, the awful feeling inside me had morphed into a simmering rage that I didn’t question or examine in any way. I was certainly in no mood to rub his back as he hurled.

It seemed like we were a little late after all, because the game had already started and the bleachers were full. Lucas held back, keeping himself out of sight of the crowd as I scanned the stands for two seats together, finally spotting them on the left side near the top. Looking over at Lucas again, I found him staring intently at the floor. He seemed to be doing everything he could not to glance at the game itself.

“Snap out of it,” I said, clapping my hands in front of his face. “You’re fine. It’s fine. Come on, let’s go.” I grabbed him none too gently by the sleeve.

Apparently rage turned me into the type of person who barked orders and was obeyed, because he didn’t resist. Or maybe he was just so out of it that following me was all he could handle. Whatever the reason, we were about halfway up the bleachers and I was still towing him by the arm when I realized everybody around us was looking our way. I faltered on the stairs, jarred by all those eyes, but Lucas didn’t skip a beat. He swiftly passed me, his head bowed and hands plunged into his pockets, and reached the seats I’d been aiming for a full minute before I got there.

I let out a slow sigh as most of the heads turned back to the game, though I did notice a few girls still staring.

We might not actually be on a date, but every person within a twenty-foot radius definitely thought we were.

Just perfect.

To distract myself from the realization that my first friendly activity with Lucas had been such a colossally bad choice, I fiddled with my bag, pulling out what we would need to get through the game. Then I turned to Lucas, still chock full of fury—because, of course, all of this was entirely
his
fault—until I took in what was happening to him.

He was sitting in his seat with his back straight as a board and his eyes closed, his hands curled into fists on his thighs, his mouth clenched closed so tightly that I could see the muscles in his jaw bulging. He was breathing hard through his nose—too hard. He looked like he was about to explode.

“I can’t be here,” he hissed through his teeth. “I have to get out of here. I have to go, now.”

I would have agreed, except going right then would have meant getting him down the stairs in this state with a couple of hundred people watching. He was in no condition to weigh in on the matter, but I was pretty sure making his panic attack public knowledge wasn’t something Lucas would want. Lucky for him, I was pretty much an expert on panic attacks, having had one at least once a week for as long as I could remember.

Grabbing his left fist, I quickly opened up his hand and placed it on my chest, just below my collarbone. His eyes flew open and I nearly smiled despite myself. At least I had his attention.

“It’s okay, Lucas,” I said in my most soothing voice, focusing my eyes on his frantic ones. I placed my hand over his. “You’re going to breathe like me. Nice and slow, okay? Close your eyes and breathe.”

His chest continued to shudder at first and I worried that it wasn’t working. My next best idea was to put his head between his knees, but considering how tall he was he would have probably ended up knocking skulls with the guy sitting in front of us. Worriedly, I reached up with my free hand and cupped his cheek, rubbing my thumb gently over that clenched jaw muscle until I finally felt it ease. I continued to whisper to him as his breathing slowly returned to normal, not even really hearing what I was saying. I knew I’d always found it comforting when my father had done this for me. I’d just never done it for someone else before. It was sort of nice, being the strong one for a change.

As the attack subsided, I let go of his cheek, but he didn’t move his hand. I was keenly aware all of a sudden of how close his palm was to my breasts and of the fact that only a few moments ago a number of girls had been avidly watching us. Were they still watching now? I nearly turned to check, but then Lucas opened his eyes.

“Almost lost you there,” I teased. He blinked at me as though he was coming out of a long sleep. Then I watched his eyes lower to where his hand was still pressed to my chest. A grin pulled at his lips.

“If I’d known this was the reward I would get, I might have come to more games,” he joked and I threw his hand back at him, swatting him hard on the arm while I was at it.

“Do you still want to go?” I asked as I watched him glance down at the game still going on below us. Somebody had just scored and the crowd around us cheered.

“After all that?” Lucas said, taking a deep breath. “Hell, no.”

“Good,” I said, handing him one of the sketch pads from my lap and two pencils. “Let’s get started.”

“What’s this?” he asked, giving the pad a quizzical look.

“I told you, we aren’t here to watch the game,” I said. “We’re here to sketch.”

This was something I did all the time when I found myself stuck in a social situation I couldn’t handle. Art was my passion, but it was also a really great smokescreen. When you were drawing, people thought twice about bothering you or even talking to you. The trick was to look really absorbed and focused. I took a sketchpad with me everywhere I went, just in case. You never knew when you might need to disappear.

“This is speed sketching,” I informed him, “so don’t waste time trying to make it perfect. The idea is to get at least twenty solid sketches in by the end of the night. You’ve got to just pick something and start drawing. And we’ll be moving around to get different angles.”

I’d expected a little bit of push back, but Lucas surprised me. He flipped open the pad and set it on his knees, his pencil poised, and when I said, “Go,” he went right to it, sketching a player running for the hoop. I guessed it was the challenge that piqued his interest. He was an athlete after all. He was used to playing to win.

Even though sports bored me to tears, there was plenty to draw in the gym. I got in a really good sketch of two girls gossiping while their boyfriends watched the game, and another of a player sitting in the front row with his head bowed, a towel over his neck. Then it was time to move. I’d thought this part might be tricky, everybody’s attention drawn back to us again as we blocked their view, but after the first few moves it seemed to be working in our favour. The crowd had lost interest in keeping track of us and nobody was looking our way.

At my elbow, Lucas sketched diligently. Since he was taking Introductory Fine Art II, I knew drawing couldn’t be entirely foreign to him—they never would have let him take the class otherwise. He frowned as he drew and chewed on his lip. It was adorable, and I couldn’t help but picture the little boy he had been once, with that same look on his face as he built a sand castle or aimed for the basket. When he looked up at me, surprised to find me watching him, I realized it was time to move again and I hadn’t drawn a single sketch.

“Maybe we should split up this time,” I said, my cheeks reddening. “I don’t see any two seats together.”

Big, fat lie.

“Whatever you say, Hero,” Lucas said with undeniable amusement.

But before I could squeeze past Lucas to get to the stairs, I found my route blocked by a pair of long, thin legs ending in spike-heeled boots. They looked like the kind of heels you would use to stab someone through the skull. Looking up, I realized that description was right on the money, because from the look she was giving me, I was pretty sure she would have stabbed me if she could.