No matter how much she runs, Laura is stuck in an endless loop of her past. With a transfer of school and a curly-haired boy who seems to be wherever she goes, it's a matter of time she realizes that her universe ceases at the sight of him-and runni...
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"EDWARDS, YOUR AIM IS COMPLETELY OFF."
It had been three days since we went to the library. Three days since we'd spoken. If someone would've told me that day, he is going to do everything in his power to ignore you after today, I wouldn't have believed it for a second. In English, he would lapse on his seat without a word, and attend the class without a comment—so unlike his usual shoulder taps and icy gaze. During lunch, he wouldn't even go through the troubles of sitting near us. He went straight to Ciara, and the duo's laughter filled the air all the way to our tables.
That did not sit right with me. Not at all. But I succeeded in blocking them out by paying extra heed to the guys, including all the rants on Capitalism and the numerous Physics study sessions Xavier, Stella, Leo, and I had had in the span of three days alone. Evan hadn't voiced his thoughts once, if he'd even thought about why I was headed to the school library at the end of the day like it was a part of my routine.
And when he did manage to acknowledge my existence—as in, right now—he was so strictly business that I wanted to ram the basketball square at him. Like securing some damage to his all-too proportionate face would free me out of misery.
He leaned onto the bleachers, calling me out on my form, not a hint of friendliness in his voice.
I couldn't be upset about that. Coach had asked him to monitor all of us without bias. Still, anger bubbled in my chest and made my concentration worse. I was giving it my all, but exam preparation had kept me up, anxious and awake, on more nights than I let on. Naturally, exhaustion was starting to show in my agility. I wondered if giving a little more would satiate my anger and make him a little less like a stranger. Perhaps if I apologized and did all of it again. He was just doing his job. . .
I realized I had spaced out when his fingers snapped. He didn't utter a word, nor did he step forward. He lifted a finger and rotated it in the air as I looked at him with bated breath. Do itagain, he meant.
I had to fight the urge to lift both my middle fingers in the air.
To hell with being nice. I was done with whatever this was, so I threw the ball at his face without a warning, letting my ponytail sway to a side. "I'm tired. I've got to be somewhere soon. Goodbye."
"Wait," he took his time countering despite catching the attack mid-air. I had already walked out. "You're not dismissed."
Dismissed. God, what was this? Is this how we were going to talk? Were we not going to talk anymore? What even was going on, and what had I done?
I didn't stop walking, because I knew he was following. Slinging my sports bag over my shoulder, I wiped a sheen of sweat with my towel, and threw a look at him. "Why are you following me?"
"You're storming out of the court in the middle of practice. Why do you think?"
If this is how we're going to speak, I'd rather never speak to you again, I thought, and then turned to face him, steps coming to an unexpected halt. He stilled too, but slowly—making him stand only a mere inch away.
