“He did what?”
Piper is practically bursting with the news. I’m already in bed, lying in the dark, listening to music, thinking about the work I’ll begin tomorrow. How the pieces will fit together. The materials I’m going to use. “Oh my God, you should have seen it! He came barrelling up into the stands – I mean, people were making way for him but they all wanted a piece of him and he just strode right on through all that like he had only one thing on his mind – and then he stops right in front of me and demands to know who you were and what your name was.”
“Did you tell him?”
“I didn’t tell him much. I told him your first name.”
“He probably won’t get far with that.” I’m relieved.
“Every female in Texas would kill to get their hands on Blake Travis, Skye. But no, he’s saving himself for his one and only true love. He seems to think you might be it.”
I shake my head. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. How can he think I’m his true love when he’s never even talked to me? He sounds like a lunatic. Thank you for not telling him my last name, at least. There are probably lots of people named Skye at this university. Thousands.” Something occurs to me. “Please say you didn’t tell him where we live.”
“No. I didn’t.” She’s smiling but there’s a half-guilty glint in her gray eyes. “But I did tell him you’re an art student.”
“Piper.”
“Please don’t be mad at me. He was just so sincere. And so hot. Jesus, Skye. How can you not be excited about this? I don’t get it. He’s grade-A Texas meat. Take a bite, girl. What’s the problem?”
How do I explain? I hate being the center of attention. In fact, I hate any attention whatsoever. Especially attention from grade-A Texas meat. How do I explain to my new friend – who no doubt has a happy family and two parents that love her and a bunch of strapping older brothers to protect her – that my upbringing was a whole lot different than that? How do I begin to describe that my father died when I was four and my mother died when I was seven, leaving me alone in the world, doomed to a life of foster care. I hated being placed with all those random families, who were never mine. Most of the time I ended up running away within the first few weeks, only to be put with a new family. And so on. That the only way I could deal with the loneliness was to keep almost entirely to myself. I didn’t know how to relate to other people, mostly because I never did. Things just hadn’t worked out that way. I’ve felt alone and vulnerable for a long time. So I hide. It’s what I do. I don’t look at them. I don’t talk to them. I keep to myself. It’s the only way I know how to protect myself. It gives me a forcefield that keeps me safe.
And now this.
Now some bigshot quarterback thinks he can claim me just because he has some self-imposed ‘rule’ that everyone thinks is cute and sexy and something special.
Well, I don’t think it’s special. I don’t know how to let my guard down, because I’ve never done it. And I’m not about to start now, especially not with someone like Blake Travis, who’s successful and gorgeous and dripping with luck. I’ve been forced by self-preservation to become a freakish, socially-stunted hermit. The only thing I know how to do is to keep to myself.
It’s a hard thing to try to describe to my new roommate.
“There’s no problem,” I say. “Except that I have an early start and I’m not really interested in hooking up with the star quarterback right now. Thank you for not telling him where I live. At least I can hide out here in our room if I need to.”
Maybe Piper notices the change in my tone. I’ve become more sullen, with all my twisted baggage rearing its ugly head. “Hey, I’m sorry, Skye. If I’d known you had something going on I would never have told him your name.”
I try to sound more cheerful. “It’s okay. It’s fine. There’s nothing going on. I just need to morph into Michelangelo over the next few months to be able to afford my tuition fees. I need to focus.”
“That’s cool,” she says. “I get that. I’m going to be doing the same thing with my psychology classes. I guess I’ll have to morph into Freud.”
We laugh at the thought and it feels good. I can’t remember the last time I laughed.
It takes me a long time to fall asleep. Even when I finally do, my dreams are swirled with memories, of my father, who died in a motorcycle accident. Of my pretty mother, who was killed by a drunk driver. Of a star quarterback who throws the winning pass. In my dream, for some strange reason, I catch it.
I get to the art building at eight o’clock sharp. It’s not even unlocked yet. So I sit down on the concrete and lean against the building to wait. I put my sunglasses on and listen to one of my playlists.
A shiny black Mustang drives up. Shit. Let me guess.
And what do you know. Mr. Star Quarterback gets out of his car. As soon as he sees me sitting there, his face breaks out into a huge smile, which, weirdly, almost makes me return the smile. It’s just so genuine. There’s something relieved about it.
He starts walking towards me.
I’ve never seen him this close up and I’ll admit, I’m captivated. He’s stunning. He’s wearing worn jeans that fit him like a dream and a white polo shirt that highlights the dark tan of his skin. His body is something to be marvelled at, no doubt about it.
Someone else can do the marvelling.
His black hair has been smoothed into place, which makes him seem younger and somehow less threatening. But not less threatening enough. This close up, as he walks closer, he looks huge. Those shoulders are broad even without all the football padding. He might be as tall as 6’3’’. He’s got one of those bodies that’s long and lean but at the same time muscled and toned, like a sculpture come to life. And those sparkling blue eyes are staring straight at me.
He sits down next to me on the concrete, leaning up against the building just like I am. He doesn’t seem to care that I don’t want him to sit next to me. Or that I can’t think of a single thing to say to him.
I know what you’re thinking: he’s gorgeous, he’s the starting quarterback, he drives a black Mustang, and he’s filling out those jeans like nobody’s business. And those blue eyes framed by dark-rimmed lashes really are to die for. And that smile.
But the thing is, I wouldn’t know the first thing about how to handle this guy. I almost stand up and walk away. I can hardly bear the heat of his gaze. He’s staring at me like he’s happy to see me. Very happy. And I have no idea why he would be. I’m just … me. The same old me I’ve always been.
Well, almost the same old me. A few things have changed in the past few days.
First, I turned eighteen the day before yesterday. I’m no longer a ward of the state but a fully-fledged human being now, who doesn’t have to answer to anyone. I walked straight out of the dingy house I’d been living in outside of Galveston, jumped on the first bus to Austin just in time to check in to my dorm. So yesterday was actually the first day of my life I started feeling free. I don’t have to worry about whether or not I’ll have to pick up and move again at the whim of someone else. I don’t have to worry about the social service drones or that feeling of loneliness that has haunted me for the past ten years.
I’m still adjusting. I need some time to calibrate all this new independence.
Blake Travis is not helping my situation by being so damn built and gorgeous and quietly fascinated as he watches me watch him. It’s probably half a minute before he even says anything. He folds his buff arms across his sculpted chest and sort of silently contemplates me. Then he smiles again and those blue eyes spangle at me. “Hi,” he finally says.
“Hi.”
“I’m Blake Travis.” His voice is deep and has a husky layer to it that makes me wonder if he’s got a good singing voice. I bet he does.
“I know.”
“You’re Skye.” I’ll admit I like the way he says my name. There’s something soft and endearing about the way he handles the word, like it’s special to him.
“I am.”
“You’re a freshman.”
“Yes.”
“You’re an art student.”
“It sounds like you pretty much know everything there is to know about me,” I say. “So I guess we’re done here.”
He does that thing again where he just watches me with this rapt, nearly-amused look on his face. “Actually,” he says, “I think we’re just getting started.”
I fold my arms across my chest and glare at him a little. I wish he would leave. Because I can tell: the more time I spend with this guy, the harder he’s going to be to resist. I don’t know how to resist. Or anything else. I’m too inexperienced with relationships with human beings in general to even know where to begin.
“Tell me about yourself,” he says.
I’m still glaring at him, wondering why he would want to know this. “Don’t you have legions of girls lining up to talk to you? Maybe you should go and talk to one of them.”
He seems almost hurt by my comment. His smile falters a little. “I don’t want to talk to them. I want to talk to you.”
“Why?”
He blinks at me. “Why?” He laughs. I have no idea what could be funny about this.
“Let me see,” he says, as though talking to someone else, or to himself. “Skye wants to know why I’d want to talk to her. Hmm, let me think about that for a second.” He rubs his hand across his jaw, like he is thinking about it. Then he stares straight into my eyes. “Maybe it’s because when I saw you, sitting up there in those stands, I’d never felt so drawn to anyone in my life.”
I twirl a strand of my long hair around a finger. Something I do when I felt uneasy, like now.
He continues. “Because all the light in that stadium seemed to land on you. And all I wanted to do was stare at you and talk to you and follow you wherever you go.”
He’s crazy.
“Or maybe it’s because when I looked up and you were gone, I couldn’t handle it. So I ran up into those stands and I asked your friend about you and when she told me, I’ve been counting down the seconds until I could see you again. Because I knew where I might find you. Right here. So I came. To talk to you. No one else. Just you.”
I think that might be the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me. And I have no idea how to respond to it.
“I wasn’t sure I’d find you here today,” he says. “You know, classes don’t start until Monday.”
“I know.” I sound almost rude and I don’t mean it to. I’m honestly just not that used to talking to people. So I make a point of trying to tone down my anxiety. “I just thought the building might be open. I wanted to get some work done.”
“I’m pretty sure they won’t open it until the start of the semester. Which is Monday.”
There goes the weekend I was going to spend working on my art project.
“Can I take you out to breakfast?” he says. “I haven’t eaten yet. I’m starving.”
Just then my stomach growls, like my body is a traitor that wants to spend more time with Blake Travis, even when my sane mind is telling me to run a mile from this grade-A specimen of too much masculinity for a hermit like me to even think about handling.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Sure it is,” he says. “You can’t work because the building is locked. It’s a beautiful day and we should make the most of it.”
When it puts it like that, it almost does sound like a good idea.
But I can’t. I’m so far out of my comfort zone I feel panicky. Like I might do something reckless and unpredictable.
“Sorry,” I say. “Maybe another time.” I remember what Piper said about him. About his rule. About how half the girls at this college are trying to convince him to break it.
The way he’s looking at me is so sad, so disappointed, I almost change my mind.
I don’t want to be impolite to him. Partly because he actually seems like a genuinely nice person and partly because of the way he’s looking at me. But I need to be clear about this. “I’m not interested in … dating people.”
His voice is low and his blue eyes take on a quiet, savage intensity as he says, “I’m not interested in dating people either. Just one person.”
“I heard about that. You’re saving yourself for true love.” Maybe the tiniest bit of skepticism creeps into my statement, only because it sounds so optimistic. So unrealistic.
A shadow of vulnerability crosses his face and I wish I could take that back. I get the feeling something made that decision for him, some painful memory from his past.
Maybe it’s that vulnerability or maybe it’s something else, but what I realize is that, with Blake Travis, I don’t feel as shy as I usually do. The sheer size of him and the brimming power contained in all those big muscles should be intimidating the hell out of me. But instead of feeling threatened, I’m almost comforted by how solid and strong he looks. And how close he’s sitting to me. Which is strange. This has never happened to me before.
I start to apologize, in case I’ve hurt his feelings or said something out of line. But then he says, “I don’t know how breakfast turned into true love but if you want to know about my rule I’ll tell you. It’ll have to be over pancakes, though, because it’s a long story.” He stands up and holds out a hand to help me. “You coming?”