Barely Breathing (The Breathing #2)(69)

"Just thought it would help," Sara shrugged with a sly grin.

"I'll falter through it on my own, I guess," I murmured, shutting my locker door with my first period books resting in my arm.

The rest of the day was filled with a buzz of oohs and ahhs over Analise. Since she was a junior, I didn't have any classes with her. I could avoid most of the gawking that stalked her. But as luck would have it, I found her sitting on the stool at my table in the Art room, exactly where Evan should have been.

"Hi," Analise offered tentatively as I sat down next to her.

"Uh, that's Evan's seat," I responded coolly.

"He won't be a part of this assignment," Ms. Meir said from behind us, causing us both to spin around. "So, Analise, you are more than welcome to sit there for the duration of this project. Emma, will you explain what we're working on?"

"Sure," I answered slowly, not getting past the sentence when she explained Evan wouldn't be part of this assignment.

I must have come off as the most horrible person in Weslyn High to this girl. I provided an abbreviated explanation of what we were working on, and basically ignored her for the rest of class. I was too busy trying to figure out what Evan needed to tell me and why he wasn't in class, convinced the two were connected. I didn't give her the slightest bit of attention.

"It was nice meeting you," Analise's soft voice said as we put our things away. I felt wretched.

"I'm sorry I wasn't very talkative," I responded guiltily. "It's been a weird day."

"I've heard you keep to yourself," Analise stated. "I understand."

"I'll see you tomorrow." I tried to recover with a soft smile.

"Sure," she smiled back kindly before we parted ways.

Evan was waiting for me at my locker.



       
         
       
        

"Did you drop Art class?" I questioned before he could say hi.

He hesitated with his lips pressed together. "No. I just asked to work on something else for a while, so Ms. Meir gave me a photography assignment."

"Oh," I responded, embarrassed by the paranoid thoughts that had raced through my head the entire class. This wasn't the first time he'd opted for a photography project. My shoulders eased up. "Yeah, that makes sense."

I opened my locker and started stuffing my books in my backpack.

"We're sharing the court today for practice," Evan told me, watching me gather my things. "So we should be able to leave together to go back to your house."

"Sounds great," I replied. He gave me a quick kiss and disappeared down the stairs to the locker room.



I lifted my eyes from my Physics book when his thumb ran across my scar. Evan gently grasped my ankle in his hand as we sat facing each other on the couch, attempting to study before dinner. He absently smoothed the marred skin while remaining focused on his History book. A strange tingling spreading up my ankle with each stroke.

He lifted his head and found me watching his hand, but he didn't remove it.

"Sorry we weren't able to talk," I said, resting the open book on my stomach.

"We still can." He paused, and I watched nervously as he gathered his thoughts, searching for the right words. "When I heard―"

"Do you like broccoli?" my mother yelled from the kitchen, the sound of water filling a pan in the background.

Evan pressed his lips into a smile. "Yes," he hollered in return.

I raised my eyebrows when he looked at me. "So... you were saying?"

He flipped his eyes toward the kitchen where my mother was moving her hips to the classic rock station coming from the small radio in the window. "It can wait."

"Are you sure?" I tried to read his expression, afraid that waiting was only going to continue to torture him―and me.

"Yes, it can," he assured me, leaning over and kissing me. I put my hands around his neck, not wanting him to move away. He pressed in closer.

"Umm..." my mother cleared her throat. Evan pulled back, and my cheeks caught fire instantly. My mother's face was as red as mine felt. She darted her eyes to the floor and announced, "Dinner's ready."

Just then, the smoke detector went off in the kitchen. I waved my hand and coughed as we entered. My mother attempted to force the window above the sink open, while I grabbed a towel and fanned the screeching alarm. This had practically become routine for us. The alarm had gone off almost every time I'd attempted to cook. 

"Stupid oven," she grunted, pushing the wooden window up a half inch at a time. "It must have fifty years of burnt food in there."