Obsessed(8)
“Quadratic equations.”
My smile faltered. “Oh. Nothing else?”
His green eyes studied me for a moment. He looked so good that day. His hair was long and down for once, not in the usual man-bun he preferred to throw it in. His features seemed to change every day. His nose was sharper, his jaw more chiselled out than it was before. My haunted prince was turning into a serious babe. “And how cute you look with your hair down.”
My cheeks burned. “Really? It’s a bit wavy today.”
With a ghost of a smile, he nodded. “It suits you very much.”
“Deck said I looked like Rapunzel. I wasn’t sure if he was making fun of me or…”
Aston’s eyes flashed with something. “Who is Deck?”
I shrugged indifferently. “Some dude in Chem. I sit in front of him, so figures he’d comment on my hair.”
He didn’t respond. Instead, he turned to his book and opened it back up. “I gotta finish up some questions, El. You should re-join your clique and talk about Deck of cards with them.”
“Deck of cards?”
He gave me a scathing look. “What kind of name is Deck?”
“I think it’s short for Dexter, and it’s hip.”
“But it’s…Deck.”
“Coming from a guy named Aston.”
“My name’s better than Deck.”
I took a bite out of my cookie. “That’s a matter of perspective.”
“Is that food, Miss Wright?” shouted a voice.
I jumped in my chair and turned to Mrs Thompson. The beast was tapping her foot behind the cart she was wheeling around the aisles. Fucking hell, she was everywhere.
“I wasn’t eating!” I said defensively, my mouth full of cookie crumbs.
“You know the rules!” She pointed in the direction of the entrance. “They’re on the door you open to come inside! No eating in the library!”
“I was nibbling.”
“No nibbling, no licking, no inhaling any foods of any kind in the library.”
“Are we supposed to starve?”
“You’re supposed to keep that smart mouth closed in the library.”
Aston smirked from my peripheral and I glowered at Mrs Thompson as I muttered under my breath, “Fucking lunatic.”
“What was that?”
“I said I’m sorry, alright? I’m sorry, Mrs Thompson, for my abominable transgressions. I’ll put it away.”
“Put it away faster!”
“I will.” Asshole.
When she turned away and shook her head, I rolled my eyes and got out of my chair. Leaning over it, so that Aston’s face was inches from mine, I whispered, “He means nothing to me, by the way.”
He didn’t acknowledge what I said, and I didn’t wait for him to. I turned away and stomped out, passing Mrs Thompson’s stifling glare. Fucking psycho. I could feel Aston’s eyes on me as I went, and I fought with everything not to look over my shoulder and meet them. My wants were obvious right from the get-go, and he continued pretending they didn’t exist.
Still.
I’d catch him staring at me some times. Like the way I knew he was staring at me as I left that library. And every time a boy showed interest, I’d notice his face change, just like it did when I brought up Deck. I saw the dark flash in his eyes, the curl of his fists, the way he shut down for hours afterwards, waiting for me to show interest back. I never did because I didn’t care for other boys. I cared only for Aston, even if it meant the girls had boyfriends when I didn’t. They experienced their first kiss, their first date, their first everything, and I remained untouched over the years, my heart collecting dust, my experience limited to non-existence.
It was hard. At times I wondered about moving on because what was the point? I’d never have a chance with him! You’re crazy, I’d scream at myself internally. You’re so crazy for wanting him! It was just… I couldn’t move on. I felt nothing for any of the boys. They were shallow and immature, while Aston challenged me.
I yearned for his complexities, for his brooding nature, for his green eyes on mine. And, for whatever reason – hopeless as it may have seemed – I waited.
I waited because Aston was worth waiting for.
4
Aston
I spent the first couple years being studied like a mouse in a lab experiment with experts surrounding me. Aptitude test. Analytical test. Problem solving. Brain scan.
Rinse and repeat.
They studied the way I reconstructed every problem they threw at me, every question I posed to myself, every possible route I took to reach my conclusion. They picked apart my brain, wondering where the creativity lurked and why. They collected their piles of data. Data that meant nothing because you couldn’t entirely understand genius. You could only study its characteristics and throw more questions at it.