And then, that door opened, the crowd grew heavier, and Donovan looked over the moving heads, ignored the loud chatter and the smell of rain on the damp clothes around him as students milled from the soaking weather outside into the hallway and past the classrooms.
When he saw her, Layla didn’t look like herself. She was still beautiful, she still made him ache at the sight of her light hair twisted in a messy bun on the back of her head. She walked from the room with her head down, her arms sliding through the sleeves of her black, waist length leather jacket. He followed her, weaving around the crowd, unable to keep his gaze from her ass and those worn jeans and knee-high black boots that she managed to make look classic and tempting.
“Layla,” he called, nearly running into her when she stopped in the middle of the hall.
One look at her face and Donovan could tell she’d lost weight. Her skin was still flawless, luminous, but her cheekbones seemed more pronounced and when someone brushed past her, knocking her knit black and white scarf to her shoulder, Donovan caught the slight protrusions of her collarbone underneath her black sweater.
“Hey,” she said, pulling her bag further up her shoulder. “What are you doing here?”
She wore red lipstick and Donovan had to curl his arms over his chest to keep from touching her mouth. “Can I talk to you for a sec?”
He didn’t understand her hesitation, why she looked around him, nodded to a few girls who smiled at her, adjusted the white button up she wore under her sweater and coat, kept her gaze and attention on anything but him. “You can give me a second, right? I think I need an explanation.”
“Why?”
Tired of being bumped by the crowd, Donovan twisted his head to his left, to the empty classroom just three doors down from the first one he’d bullied her into all those months ago. Surprisingly, she didn’t argue, didn’t give him some stupid excuse why she couldn’t spare a minute for him. Layla simply walked into the room without waiting for him, as though she’d expected this conversation to happen and had been waiting for him to start it.
The room was empty of anything other than one row of metal desks, at least twenty years old, and a small wooden table—worn, with chipping green paint—in front of the white board. It was that table that Layla leaned against, slinging her bag at her feet as she waited for Donovan to stand in front of her.
“So? Talk.”
“What’s going on with you?” He wanted to say “What the hell, Layla?” and “Why are you ignoring me? Why won’t you be with me?” but all those things sounded simple and desperate and Donovan was trying to get answers, not beg her to keep him company at night again.
“Nothing. I’ve just been busy.” She still wouldn’t look at him for very long, keeping her attention on the window to her right and the storm that flooded around the campus and coated the glass with fog and water.
“Too busy to return my messages?”
“Yeah,” she finally said, staring back at him. “Sorry. My dad is pushing me to apply for graduate school. I’ve been trying to work on my design portfolio and a few designs and get some references.”
“That takes all day and night?”
“No.” Layla’s skin didn’t flush and Donovan noticed there was little fire in her voice. He missed it; that spark that had never ceased to unnerve him, have him wanting to scream right back at her. But it was gone. He wanted to know why.
“Then what’s going on?” Her back straightened and he caught how she held herself, defensive, suspicious, when he pulled her chin up so she couldn’t avoid is eyes. “Really?” He didn’t hold back then, not happy that she was being dismissive, wasn’t bothering to hide how awkward she felt or how much she didn’t want to be alone with him. “I piss you off?”
“No.” She moved her chin out of his reach and scooted back on the table. “Not really.”
“’Not really?’ What is that supposed to mean?” She shrugged. “Layla, that’s a non-answer. If I pissed you off, you need to speak up.”
There was a hesitation, the brief pause she took to stare a bit longer out of the window before she finally moved her gaze back to him. “That last time, after the fight. What… what was that exactly?”
Donovan knew what she wanted to hear. She’d left that night not smiling. She hadn’t tried to kiss him goodbye, something she did because she knew it only annoyed him. The moment she left, Donovan’s room had grown cold, empty and he dismissed it as nothing—the weather, him not cranking up the heat. But deep down he’d known why she’d left quiet, without making attempts at irritating him. He’d known, he knew even now as he looked down at her and that intense gleam in her eyes. He’d been sweet, easy and it must have thrown her. It must have scared her. He couldn’t have stopped himself. It was a small thing, him loving her, him giving and not taking and he knew it had scared her. But Donovan was finding out how hard it was to reign in his emotions. He had touched her because that’s what he needed—just a small part of her that Layla would never give him freely.