Page 36

“Are you seriously so pathetic that you need two friends to help you beat up one guy?” I spit the words at Brad, whose smirk falters slightly. “What, afraid he might actually fight back if it was one-on-one?”

Tyler steps forward, his letterman jacket stretching across shoulders built from rugby, not from beating up lanky boys who play guitar. “You should mind your own business, Vivian. We’re just teaching this freak a lesson.”

I laugh, the sound sharp and bitter. “A lesson? What’s he going to learn from you three? How to be an insecure asshole who picks on people to feel better about his tiny dick?”

Conor snorts, and Tyler’s face darkens. Brad steps closer to me, close enough that I can smell the mint gum he’s chewing, the artificial scent making my stomach turn.

“You know,” he says, lowering his voice to what he probably thinks is sexy, “you’re pretty hot when you’re angry.” His hand reaches out to touch my face. “Why waste your time defending this loser when you could be with—”

I don’t let him finish. My knee jerks upward, connecting with his groin with a precision that would make my self-defense teacher proud. As he doubles over, I slap him hard across the face, the crack of skin against skin echoing in the empty schoolyard. It stings, but I ignore it. Then I grab his shoulders, spin him around, and shove him toward his friends.

“Fuck off,” I growl, adrenaline making my voice steady despite the trembling in my legs. “All of you. Now.”

They hesitate, uncertain whether their fragile masculinity can handle being dismissed by a girl. I take a step toward them, and something in my eyes—something wild and uncompromising—makes them back up.

“This isn’t over,” Tyler mutters, hooking an arm around Brad, who’s still hunched over. “You’re making a mistake, siding with that freak.”

“The only mistake here is thinking I give a shit about your opinion,” I reply, not breaking eye contact. “Go.”

They retreat, muttering curses and threats, but I stand my ground until they disappear around the corner of the building. Only then do I let out the breath I’ve been holding and turn around.

Andy is still on the ground, staring up at me with eyes so wide and blue they remind me of the Lake Michigan waters I left behind. Blood trickles from a split lip, which he tries to wipe away with the back of his hand, smearing it across his chin instead. His knuckles are bloodied too—at least he fought back. His dirty-blond hair, usually styled in soft waves that fall across his forehead, is disheveled and dusty from the pavement.

I notice, for the first time up close, that he has pierced ears. Small black studs that somehow make his delicate features seem more defined. It suits him.

I crouch down in front of him, my heart still racing but for entirely different reasons now. “Are you okay?”

He doesn’t answer immediately, his gaze dropping to the ground, then flicking back up to meet mine, then away again. The few times our eyes do connect, an electric current seems to run through my entire body.

I like him. The realization isn’t new, but it hits me again with clarity. I really, really like Andy.

“Don’t mind them,” I say, filling the silence. “Those guys lack self-esteem. They probably have small dicks, so...” I trail off, suddenly horrified at where my mouth is taking me. Did I seriously just bring up dick size? What the hell is wrong with me? “I mean, they’re just... they’re just assholes who... um...”

Great job, Vivian. Real smooth.

My cheeks burn as I stumble over my words. “Sorry. That was... I didn’t mean to... I was just trying to say they’re jerks and you shouldn’t listen to anything they say.”

Andy’s mouth twitches slightly, almost a smile, despite his split lip. A spot of color has risen to his pale cheeks, making them look like they’ve been dusted with pink chalk.

I stand up and extend my hand to him. “Hold onto it. Let’s get you up.”

He hesitates, eyes on my outstretched palm. “I’m heavy,” he mumbles, his Welsh accent softer than I expected, his voice deeper.

“I want to help you,” I insist, “so drop the stubbornness.”

After a moment’s hesitation, he slides his hand into mine. I wrap my fingers around his, noticing the rough callouses on his fingertips—guitarist’s hands. Up close, his knuckles look terrible, skin split and bleeding from where he must have landed a punch or two of his own. Despite being scrawny, there’s strength in his grip as I help pull him to his feet.

He towers over me once he’s standing, all six-foot-something of him unfolding like some lanky, beautiful origami. He sways slightly, and I reach out to steady him, my hand on his forearm feeling the surprising firmness beneath his rumpled school shirt.

“You need to see the nurse,” I say, not letting go of his arm. “Those cuts need cleaning. I can take you.”

Something shifts in his expression—a closing off, a withdrawal. The slight smile vanishes, replaced by a guardedness that makes my heart sink.

“There’s no need,” he says quietly, gently extracting his hand from mine and taking a step back. “I’ll go. Alone.” He looks down at his bloodied knuckles, then back at me with an expression I can’t quite read. “Sorry for being a burden.”

Before I can respond, he turns and walks away, his tall frame slightly hunched as if trying to make himself smaller, less noticeable. He reaches the school doors and disappears inside without looking back.

“You’re not a burden, Andy,” I whisper to his retreating back, the words too quiet for him to hear.