Put Me Back Together (4 page)

My eyes strayed to his face. He didn’t seem the least bit perturbed that I was basically giving him the brush off. He’d taken off his coat and I could feel the heat coming off of him, right through his shirt. Why did guys always give off heat like they were a furnace? All of a sudden I was sweltering.

He added, “Although it might be a little difficult, considering—”

“Considering what? There’s nothing to consider. Just go to your class and I’ll go to mine,” I said, scowling at him. Why wouldn’t he just go already?

He leaned against the locker beside me, watching me with curious eyes. His expression was soft, like a caress, and I felt my resolve beginning to buckle.

Then I thought of the news report and squared my shoulders, purposely trying to bring out the pain in my back. Pain was good. Pain was a reminder.

He wasn’t budging, so I decided to move instead. For some reason my hand was trembling as I pulled open the classroom door.

“Goodbye, Lucas,” I said without turning around.

“Goodbye, Katie,” he replied with a mysterious smile on his lips.

Breathing a sigh of relief—although it sort of felt a little bit like regret at the same time—I made my way around the studio to my easel in the corner. Most of the other students were already present and Professor Wilkins walked in just as I put my bag down. This was good. This was my favourite class. This would help me refocus, forget about the news report, forget about campus hotties and cats and the date that loomed on my calendar, the one that was distracting me more and more these days.

As I was setting up my canvas, a guy stepped up to the easel next to mine. I glanced up, ready to tell him that spot was normally taken by a girl named Naomi, when my mouth fell open. The guy standing next to me looked very familiar, and by the way he was handling the paints and brushes I could tell he’d been in the class all semester. I watched him adjusting the height of his easel. Then he looked over at me and grinned in a self-satisfied way, putting his dimples on full display.

Lucas Matthews was in my class.

3

I woke up with a start and sat up in bed, breathing hard. My entire body was covered in a thin sheen of sweat, even though it was a chilly winter morning. I kicked the covers to the foot of the bed and lay back down, covering my face with my hands. I’d been having a dream about Lucas. And not just any dream. A sexy dream. An incredibly hot and sexy dream that had left my body aching and entirely frustrated. I groaned and buried my face in my pillow. Only I could manage to be embarrassed even when nobody else was watching. I was actually blushing over a dream, in my empty bedroom, with windows so frosted over no one could see in.

I was hopeless.

Staring at the delicate patterns of frost swirling over my windowpane, I debated the matter. So I was attracted to Lucas. It wasn’t a big deal. I was nineteen years old, after all. These feelings were totally natural. Like Em had said, it wasn’t like I was the only one. He was a gorgeous guy and I was just having a normal reaction, that was all. No problem.

Except it was a huge problem.

I’d been attracted to guys before, obviously: celebrities, handsome strangers, unattainable classmates I’d never actually spoken to. But my attraction had never reached this kind of intensity—how could it when I barely knew the guys? I’d only ever felt like this once before, and the memories that came flowing in when I thought about
that
time,
that
guy, were ones I wanted to forget. Because that time my feelings had led me so far astray I’d barely found my way back. In fact, I wasn’t entirely sure I had, though I’d been trying to for six years.

Brandon Tomko. The boy who’d ruined my life and the lives of so many others. The boy I hadn’t seen face-to-face in years. The boy I was trying so hard not to think about, especially now as the date came creeping steadily closer. My eyes drifted to the calendar hanging on my wall. I hadn’t circled the date but it still jumped out at me as though it was in 3D. March twentieth. Just a little less than a month away.

Now was the time for keeping a low profile, slipping under the radar, staying safe. Now was the time for survival. Now was not the time for Lucas Matthews.

I sat up and swung my feet over the edge of the bed, feeling irritated with myself. I’d spent years making sure I didn’t find myself in this exact situation, and yet here I was, and at the worst possible time. I kept to myself for a reason. I avoided making friends for a reason. And boyfriends? Not on your life. I knew what I could handle and what I couldn’t. I knew what I was good at and what I’d failed at so miserably that I should never try it again. Ever.

Tying my thick hair up into a bun, I walked into the bathroom and turned on the shower. Steam filled up the room, fogging up the mirror so I couldn’t make out my own face. I stared at my wobbly, indistinct reflection. Who was I kidding, anyway? This was Lucas Matthews I was talking about. The guy every girl on campus was mooning over and dreaming of. The basketball player. The Lothario of Queen's University. What made me think he didn’t already have a girlfriend? Of course he did. With dimples like that, how could he not?

As I climbed into the shower and began soaping up my skin—a little more roughly than usual—I realized how I’d been completely blowing this situation out of proportion. Just because I was having sexy dreams about Lucas did not mean he was having sexy dreams about me. Just looking down at my body confirmed this. I was no model, that was for sure. Emily was the stereotypical image of perfection, the prom queen type, the hot one. I was the one who ate ice cream for dinner three times a week and whose face was round like the moon. Okay, my boobs weren’t terrible, and everybody always complimented my light caramel skin tone—being mixed race had its perks—but my black hair was always frizzing and flying every which way, my thighs I didn’t even want to talk about, and then there were the glasses that made my already big brown eyes look frighteningly enormous. I wore contacts whenever I could, but they irritated my eyes.

Getting out of the shower, I stepped back into my room, towel in hand, and stood in front of the full-length mirror.

Was this the girl Lucas Matthews fantasized about?

I didn’t think so.

Then I thought about the disastrous outfit I’d been wearing the night I met him.

I didn’t have a chance in hell.

It was funny—and a little depressing—how much this cheered me up.

I resolved to put Lucas out of my mind and to concentrate on doing my work and getting through the winter. I didn’t think it would be that hard. I’d been avoiding him pretty successfully for the last week—avoiding eye contact in class, making a beeline for the door as soon as the lesson was over, and staying off campus as much as possible. It wasn’t really that different from my usual routine. Forgetting about Lucas was going to be a snap.

After wolfing down a quick breakfast of leftover pepperoni pizza and trying unsuccessfully to coax the cat out from under my dresser—he’d abandoned the couch for this better hiding place a couple of days ago—I got ready to face the frosty day. I didn’t have a class until modern American lit at eleven thirty, but I was eager to get to the studio and do some painting. A little more than eager, maybe. More like desperate. Nothing calmed me the way painting did, and I was in dire need of some calming down. I glanced up at the canvases covering my living room wall.

I favoured landscapes, darkness, and obscured faces. Every painting was a variation of the same theme, the same subject. All grouped together like this, my paintings could be overwhelming and a little disturbing—that was why I didn’t like to let anyone into my apartment—but I didn’t see them that way. These paintings were me. I poured myself onto the canvas every time. I knew the feeling that had caused every single brush stroke and I was glad to have them out of me. Better on the canvas than inside my heart.

I was pulling my door closed while rifling through my bag to find my keys when I heard my name and reluctantly turned around. My neighbor, Mariella, stood at her own front door carrying a Thomas the Train backpack, a yellow toy truck, a purse, and some kind of animal costume. She was also eating an apple and texting on her phone.

“Hey, girl!” she said in that enthusiastic way she had, as though you were the most interesting person she’d ever known. “I’m so late, you have no idea. And did you see the snow coming down? I’m never going to get him to school on time. Ethan, come
on
!”

From inside her apartment I heard a little voice cry out, “I found one boot but I can’t find the other one!”

“
The Wizard of Oz
,” Mariella said, shaking the costume at me with a gag-me expression on her face. “Since when do they have them doing plays before they know how to read? It’s like they want to punish me! Ethan, I swear to God!” She gave out an exaggerated sigh. “So how’s it going? I haven’t seen you in weeks.” She looked at me expectantly as she took another bite of her apple.

I bit my lip and tried to give her my most genuine smile. “I’ve been good,” I said. “Just busy with school, you know.” Without actually looking, I thought longingly of the stairs that would lead me outside and away from this conversation.

Mariella was one of the nicest people I’d ever met. She was only three years older than me and had a five-year-old son, whom she was raising on her own because his father was a “douchecanoe.” Ever since I’d moved in, she’d been on a mission to make me her best friend—inviting me over for dinner and movie nights, offering to quiz me for tests, complimenting my outfits. She’d even forced homemade lasagna on me during finals week last year when she knew I’d been subsisting entirely on microwave meals and Kraft Dinner. Considering how much she had going on—she worked two jobs and was caring for another human being—I should have been grateful and flattered by her attention. Instead I was always trying to avoid her. I couldn’t help but feel uneasy around her, and as I stood in the hallway trying to think of an excuse to run away, the reason for my uneasiness walked out of her apartment.

“Mummy, there’s a knot in the lace,” Ethan said, hopping on one foot so he could hold the other up to his mother.

“Katie,” Mariella said as she dumped everything in her arms onto the floor and bent down to deal with Ethan’s bootlace, “when you have kids, don’t ever get them lace-up boots. Go Velcro all the way. I don’t know what I was thinking!”

Ethan grinned up at me with his adorable two-teeth-missing smile. He was a beautiful boy, half-Jamaican—that was Mariella—half-Caucasian—that was the douchecanoe—with skin just a little darker than mine and astounding blue eyes with lashes so thick you could brush them.

Looking into those eyes only reminded me that I had no intention of ever having kids. But I didn’t say this to Mariella.

“Well, I’d better get to class,” I said as I tried to edge past Mariella’s enormous pile of stuff.

“Not so fast!” she said, pointing an accusing finger my way. “You’re not going anywhere until you explain the beautiful man I saw leaving your apartment the other night. Don’t even try to deny it.”

I gaped at her. How did she always know everything?

“I saw him coming down the stairs,” she continued, giving me a knowing look. “I want all the details. That man was far too delectable for you to leave out any details.”

“How do you know he was coming from my place?” I protested. “It could have been—”

“We’re on the top floor, ours are the only two apartments up here, and he was coming down our staircase,” Ethan piped up.

I looked from Ethan to Mariella, who shrugged.

“Who else do I have to talk to?” she said.

“Nothing happened. I barely know him,” I said as I began to back away. “I really have to go.”

“Don’t you dare think this conversation is over. I know where you live!” Mariella cried as I finally made it to the stairs and began to bound down them like a jackrabbit on speed.

Once I reached the street I let out a long breath and slowed my pace. I couldn’t be friends with Mariella, no matter how much she wanted to be, not when just looking at her son broke my heart.

There was only so much a person could stand.

As I approached the third floor art studio, the smell of oil paint greeted me like an old friend. The studio, which also served as a classroom for my daily art course, was only about a quarter full of students working intently on their projects. Still, it was pretty loud, as usual, as people fought over what music to play and commented on each other’s work. I walked inside and made straight for the back corner, speaking to no one, which was surprisingly acceptable. I loved that about the art studio. With so many artistic types crammed into one space, no one batted an eye if you concentrated on your painting silently for six hours straight; they just assumed you were lost in your artistic genius. It really should have been printed on the art school brochures: “Want to be ignored? Art school is the place for you!” This room was the only one on campus I felt completely comfortable in, even when it was filled with people. It was a lovely thing to ignore and be ignored.