I walk into my statistics class eagerly, the first one here, as usual. At least this time the teacher is already in the room, sitting at her desk while she absently pops grapes into her mouth, her gaze fixed on her phone.
“Hi, Mrs. Nelson,” I greet as I sit at my desk, refusing to look inside the storage area to see if my book is waiting for me.
Savoring the anticipation curling through me instead.
“Oh hi, Daisy. How are you?” she asks absently, her gaze straying once more to her phone.
“Great,” I chirp, dropping my backpack at my feet and taking a deep breath.
I bend my head to the side, spotting my book, and I reach for it, pulling it out. Flipping it open and reading the note I left behind in the section that I like the best so far.
This is my favorite scene, especially the part I highlighted.
My gaze drops to the highlighted section, reading it again.
We sit next to each other, our bodies straining. Achingly aware of how close we are. I set my hand on the seat, stretching my pinky finger out as far as it will go and he does the same.
The exact same.
Our fingers brush. Once. Twice. And then he retreats, removing his hand completely. The disappointment that leaves me hollow is overwhelming and I release a shaky breath, scared he might not notice.
Smiling when I realize he did.
The chatter as everyone starts to enter the classroom after lunch is extra loud and I lift my head, blowing out a harsh breath. That is still my favorite scene, but it doesn’t look like my anonymous friend left me a note in response.
The disappointment I feel is crushing.
I turn the page, my heart lodging in my throat when I realize there is a response. In that same bold, masculine handwriting.
You like it subtle.
A smile touches my lips. Yes, I do like it subtle. And this isn’t a girl. A girl wouldn’t say I like it subtle. She’d say, that’s my favorite part too! Or something like that.
This is a boy who’s trying to figure out…what? What I like? What I don’t like? Why does he care? What does it matter?
I flip through the book, finding another Post-it note in a section I haven’t read, a few sentences underlined with pencil accompanied by the note.
I like this.
My gaze drops to the lines he haphazardly underlined, my heart rate accelerating.
Her lips are pink and all I can think about is kissing them.
I do exactly that. I kiss her with everything I’ve got and she opens to me easily. Too easily. I cup her cheek, streak my fingers across her soft skin as I slowly circle my tongue around hers.
Slow. Searching. Tasting. Learning.
Until she’s moaning. Whimpering. Clutching the front of my shirt. Begging for it without saying the words.
She wants me.
“Okay, Michael, will you shut the door, please? It’s so loud out there,” Mrs. Nelson says, startling me.
I glance up and around me, but no one is paying attention. Not a single soul. Not even Mrs. Nelson, who currently has three students surrounding her desk, all of them asking questions about last night’s homework assignment.
I finished it—not with ease, but I eventually got it and completed the assignment. Stayed up way too late working on homework so maybe that’s why I keep finding myself in my head. Having thoughts of a certain someone kissing me just like the passage I read.
Scrambling, I get my textbook out, along with the bag I like to keep my pens and pencils in. I unzip it, digging through all the pens until I pull out a pastel blue highlighter pen from a set Dad gave me for Christmas.
I grab my Post-its next, scribbling a note across it, my pulse racing like I just ran a mile. I’m breathless, excited and when I slap the Post-it on the page within, I shut the book and shove it in the desk cubby, along with the pen.
And then, like the good girl I want to be, I sit up straight and flip open my textbook to the pages we discussed yesterday. Hand my homework to Mrs. Nelson when she asks for it after doing roll call. Pay attention to everything she says, dutifully taking notes. Squinting at the problems she writes out on the white board, getting them almost immediately.
Thank goodness.
All the while I’m aware of the book inside the desk. The words he underlined in my head. The string of four words getting to me the most.
Slow. Searching. Tasting. Learning.
What would it be like, getting kissed like that? So thoroughly, so deliciously, you’d be left a shivery, overwhelmed mess? I want to know.
I want to know if Arch kisses like that.
My guess is yes.
Yes, he does.
When class is over, I take my time to gather my things, my pace unusually slow. To the point that Mrs. Nelson notices.
I’m always out of the class quick. I don’t like to be late to anything.
“You okay, Daisy?”
“I’m fine.” I send her an encouraging smile, shoving my textbook in my backpack at a turtle’s pace. Students from the next period start filing in, one after the other, but no one approaches my desk.
No one says, hey that’s my seat.
Reluctantly, I leave, wishing I knew who sat there.
Wishing I knew who underlined that part. Who said it was their favorite.
Wishing more than anything that it was Arch who wrote that. Who liked that.
In my dreams…
