Sweet Nothing(17)

Finally, I slip my finger beneath the flap and carefully remove the card inside.



you’re invited

to an art opening honoring

the students of honors painting 3

and honors photography 2



My heart sinks. It’s nothing, just an invitation to a school event. There’s a date—tomorrow night—and an off-campus address, and Luke has scrawled hope you can make it at the bottom.

I shove the invitation back into the envelope. I don’t know what I was expecting, but the knot of disappointment in my stomach tells me I wanted something more than this. An invite to a school event sends the message loud and clear: Luke sees me as nothing more than a work obligation. And this is just a nice gesture, to make me feel included. Or maybe this is the Universe, reminding me that Luke is out of my reach. That we’re colleagues. That we can never be anything more.

A guy like him could never want a girl like me, anyway. Again, message received.





chapter seven



Elle,



Call me. Now.



A





I’m preoccupied for the rest of the night and the next morning, debating whether to go to the art opening. By the end of first period, it’s decided: I definitely won’t make an appearance. Every time I see Luke, I feel a gravitational pull toward a guy who can never know the real me. Why should I torture myself, when seeing Luke tonight will only make me want what I can’t have?

By third period, I’ve made up my mind: I have to go. If Dr. Goodwin finds out that I was invited and bailed, I’ll look like a slacker. It’s a school-sponsored event, and I could use some brownie points after Senator Santiago’s phone call. Who says Luke and I can’t be friends? It’s not like I’m a horny teenager who can’t control herself around a man. I’m an adult. I can act like one.

Right? Right.

By the end of the day, I’m teetering on the verge of a migraine. So I’m relieved when Gwen pops into my room after the last bell.

“Wanna get coffee? I have a meeting for the Gazette later, but I could use some time off campus.” Leaning in my doorway, she’s mastered the art of cool. She’s wearing black cigarette pants, metallic oxfords, a vintage tee, and a fitted plum blazer. And she’s accessorized with a glinting costume brooch and retro red frames that she doesn’t need, but totally pulls off.

“Sounds great.” I like this about her: every day her style seems different, but underneath it all, she’s the same relaxed, confident Gwen. I wonder what it would be like to feel that comfortable in my skin. To remain constant, steady on the inside, despite the changes on the outside.

“Cool. There’s a sweet little place a couple blocks over if you want to walk.”

I start to corral my belongings—cell, planner, iPad, and money clip. Before I can stash them in my bag, the phone rings. Aria. She’s already called three times today, while I was in class.

“Need to get that?”

“No. It’s fine,” I say quickly, silencing the phone. I toss it in my bag. Guilt creeps in at the base of my skull. Aria obviously needs me. And I’ve abandoned her, along with the rest of my family. “And walking sounds good. I’ve been cooped up all…” I trail off as my fingertips graze Luke’s gold envelope.

“In that case…” Gwen sheds her blazer and tosses it on my desk, along with a stack of rubber-banded summer reading tests and a People mag. “mind if I leave this stuff here? I can come back for it before my meeting.”

“No problem.” Aria will be fine. She can wait. I’ll call her when I have time to talk. I wouldn’t be any good to her with Gwen standing here, anyway.

It only takes a few minutes to walk to Gwen’s usual coffee haunt, which as promised is not far from campus. Still, my bangs are papered to my forehead by the time we step into the icy, air-conditioned space. Miami Fun Fact: Bangs are hazardous to one’s self-esteem in temperatures over 80 degrees.

We order iced coffees (mine with soy milk and raw sugar, Gwen’s black) at a long, mosaic-tiled bar.

“I’ve got it.” I feel around my bag for my money clip, finding the cool plastic of my debit card instead. “You guys have been so sweet since I got here.”

I half expect Gwen to protest—it’s what I would do, even if I had no intention of paying—but instead she just says: “Awesome. Thanks.”

The barista swipes my card, then rolls her eyes at the machine. “Sorry. It’s taking a second.”

“So, how was young Master Santiago in class today?” Gwen asks.

“Entitled.” He’d sauntered into my classroom just milliseconds before the bell, giving me what could only be described as a dickish smile. Had taken his seat in the back row and refused to speak for the entire 45 minutes.