TWO ARABELLA

TWO

Arabella

GOD, it’s difficult being halfway in love with a grumpy Lancaster who constantly snarls and snaps at you and somehow thinks that’s flirting. He’s like a pissed-off, injured dragon who seethes with anger and broods like he wanders the moors of Scotland in search of his long-lost love in the middle of the night, frustrated because he can’t find her when, damn it, she is standing directly in front of him. I can’t help that he’s an idiot who doesn’t realize what we could be …

Shaking my head, I push the far too dramatic thoughts from it and enter the building upon the first sound of the warning bell that indicates we have five minutes left until class. I could feel him watching me the entire time I spoke to those girls—they were all younger than me and I have no idea what their names are but that’s beside the point—and I was desperate to turn around and fling myself at him. Beg him to touch me just once. That’s all I ask.

Just one time.

But if that actually happened, I know he’d turn me into an addict, and I don’t feel like making a fool of myself over an angry, sexy boy who would most likely rock my world the first time he touched my lips with his. Instead, I try to keep a healthy distance between us because I’m not reckless.

At least, I’m not reckless with my heart. Everything else? Most definitely. And besides, I don’t do a good job trying to keep away from him. I’m a moth and he’s the flame, and I’m drawn to him despite knowing that the closer I get, I’ll get burned.

The moment I enter my statistics class, our teacher shakes her head, her disappointment in me obvious.

“Arabella.” That’s all Mrs. Guthrie says as I make my way across the classroom and settle into the desk that’s closest to hers. My usual desk because I love math and I love Mrs. Guthrie and plus, I’m a bit of a suck-up.

As per school rules, she wields a certain amount of control over me and I know it.

“What?” I blink at her as I shrug out of my coat—it’s quite toasty but that’s thanks to the thick faux fur it’s made of—and drop it carelessly across the back of my chair.

“You’re violating dress code.” She pauses for emphasis. “Again.”

I violate dress code pretty much every single day of the school year but no one does much about it. Being my senior year, I really push the boundaries now. Today’s outfit is nothing compared to some of the things I’ve worn in the not-so-distant past. Or the things I have planned for the near future.

I need to get my thrills somehow.

“Are you going to write me up?” I stick out my lower lip in a worrisome pout. If I was a talented actress, I could make my lip quiver, but I’m not made for the theater, unfortunately. And while I do take the advanced theater class because I so very much wish I was brilliant on the stage, my talents usually lie in costume or set design.

“As your first period teacher, I’m obligated to write you up.” There’s that power I referred to earlier.

“Oh no.” I rest my hand against my chest, playing dumb.

A sigh leaves Mrs. Guthrie and she shakes her head. “At least you’re mostly covered up.”

She’s probably remembering that one time at the beginning of the school year when I wore a Missoni blue and white knit bikini top underneath my white button-down. And how I knotted the button-down at my midriff, exposing my stomach completely while not bothering to wear the uniform jacket because my God, it was hot that day. I felt like a goddess the moment I saw Rowan’s reaction. He appeared to swallow his tongue, his green eyes never straying from my bare stomach, and I swear his heated gaze was so intense, it felt like he was actually touching me.

I wish.

All the boys loved the outfit, and all the girls were desperate to copy me by wearing the same thing, though that idea was squashed immediately.

I got written up for that one and was even put into detention for three days. I had to be, Guthrie implied, her tone beyond exasperated. I frustrate her beyond measure every single day, and I always think that’s how my mother feels about me too.

I just bring out the worst in people, I suppose. Maybe because I take things too far? It’s like I can’t help myself.

“That’s a good sign, right? That I’m covered up?” My voice is hopeful, as are my thoughts. I really don’t want to go to the headmaster’s office this morning. She’s a delightful old woman who seems amused by all of us with her grandmotherly ways. A big improvement on the last headmaster we had who turned out to be a total creep.

“I’m going to let this one go,” Mrs. Guthrie tells me as more students pour into the classroom, bringing their loud and distracting chatter with them. “Just—please watch yourself, Arabella.”

Curling my hands together, I clasp them on top of my desk, ever the dutiful student. “Of course. Thank you, Mrs. Guthrie.”

Someone approaches her with a question before she can respond to me, her attention turned elsewhere, and I nearly sag with relief. I don’t know why I choose to push the envelope or do such outrageous things—say, provoking things. I have provoking thoughts too, though all of them are centered on a certain six-foot-two dreamboat with dark hair and beautiful green eyes and the smartest mouth around.

Truth be told, I secretly love it when he’s mean to me. All snappy and growly like an injured animal, which he truly is currently with that boot on his foot. My poor baby got his ankle broken by some horrible brute out on the football field, and my God, the scream that ripped from my throat when he first went down …

Let’s just say I’m glad everyone else was yelling in the stands too. My reaction had been completely embarrassing but thankfully, no one noticed.

It’s only when the bell is about to ring that Rowan Lancaster slips into the classroom, flashing the teacher an apologetic but charming smile as he settles into the desk that is in the same row as mine, but on the complete opposite side of the room. I don’t even bother looking in his direction because there’s no point. He won’t acknowledge me. He never does in statistics, and that’s because he has to keep his focus on the subject at all times.

My boy has a few flaws and one of them is math.

We’re in every single class together this year, and if that isn’t some sort of sign, I don’t know what is. And I’m a big believer in signs, while Row is most definitely not. He told me that before, one night when we were at a party in someone’s dorm room. His dorm room, as a matter of fact, which is more like a full-fledged suite. He was a little drunk and freely speaking to me like I wasn’t his mortal enemy, and it had been a glorious moment.

A moment like that has never happened between us again, much to my regret. Rowan’s lips are tighter than Fort Knox when it comes to personal stuff. Deep, dark, secret-type stuff. Not that I think he’s full of secrets but come on.

He has a few. We all do.

My favorite person to chat with at parties besides Rowan is his bestie. I just adore Callahan Bennett with my whole heart because he’s funny and sweet and easy to talk to. I like embarrassing him when I flirt with him because I know it infuriates Rowan. He hates it when I pay attention to his best friend and ignore him. I’m sure they’ve had conversations about me.

Or maybe that’s my ego. Maybe they never talk about me at all.

Anyway, when Cal drinks? His lips become looser and looser, and the next thing I know, he’s spilling all sorts of tea. Interesting little tidbits are shared without much explanation and afterward I’m left lying in bed deep into the night, trying to put it all together, which I can never fully do. Is Cal trying to send me secret messages? Is he trying to tell me without blatantly saying it that Rowan is interested in me? Or is that just wishful thinking on my part?

I’m not even sure if Callahan is aware of his big, drunken mouth.

Now, I pay attention in statistics because I’m not left much choice. And I keep paying attention throughout the morning, only able to let my guard down and have a little fun once I enter the beautiful old theater where our class is held right before lunch. Everyone is sitting on the stage, the spotlights shining upon them so brightly it’s hard to make out their features. The moment they spot me striding down the aisle toward them, they burst into applause.

I put some extra strut into my step because at least here I’m appreciated for my unique twists on our standard and so very boring uniform.

“Love the tights,” someone shouts, and I kick out a leg, loving how the lights make them appear extra sparkly.

“Rather boring choice for today though, don’t you think?”

I glance over my shoulder at the sound of his deep voice. The one person who never seems impressed with me.

Pausing, I wait for Rowan to catch up, unable to contain the smile that curves my lips at seeing him limp his way toward me. He hates the boot, and I don’t blame him. “You find my accessory choices boring ?”

I feign annoyance because my God, the boy loves to give me endless shit and it’s exhausting.

“I’ve seen you do better,” he drawls, his gaze flitting over me, heat sparking on my skin everywhere his eyes seem to touch. “Why am I in this class again?”

He asks me this question at least once a week. He despises being here, which I find amusing because it’s advanced theater, meaning he took beginning theater already. But he has a soft spot for our teacher Mr. Thorson, and I swear, that’s the only person I’ve ever seen Rowan have a soft spot for.

But we all feel that way. Thorson is an easy person to adore.

“Because you want to spend as much time with me as possible,” I tell Rowan, increasing my pace so I can walk ahead of him. Maybe he likes to check out my butt, I don’t know.

He chuckles and the sound reaches deep inside me, settling in that dark spot between my legs. The one that throbs to life every time he comes near me. “In your dreams, Bells.”

If he only knew that’s exactly where he resides almost every single night.

The bell rings and I settle into the first row that faces the stage, joining a few stragglers who chose not to go up there with the rest of them. Rowan sits at the end of the row, his foot stuck out awkwardly, that clanky boot he’s wearing at an odd angle that doesn’t look comfortable. He’s immediately on his phone, his head bent, his dark hair falling across his forehead, and I lean forward, watching him.

Not worried at all if anyone notices.

It’s getting worse, my obvious staring. Is it because I don’t care anymore? When I was younger, when my crush on Rowan Lancaster first started, I was shy. Secretive. I didn’t want anyone to know, especially him. But as the crush grew into this over-whelming, all-consuming thing and as the years have passed, I’ve come to realize I sort of don’t care anymore who knows how I feel about Rowan.

Especially … Rowan.

He doesn’t take me seriously, and that’s where I run into road blocks. Is it that he doesn’t view me as a sexual being? That can’t be it—I see the way he always looks at my boobs. Is he not attracted to me? I notice the way he watches me sometimes. Almost hungrily if I’m being truthful.

Or maybe I’m delusional. I can’t tell.

I absently reach for the necklace I keep tucked under my shirt, tugging on the delicate gold chain, my thumb drifting across my empty heart-shaped locket. I wear it every single day and never take it off, not even to shower. I designed it myself when I was thirteen and thought I wanted to be a jewelry designer, and it’s the only piece I’ve ever had brought to life from a sketch. My mother took the sketch to her personal jeweler—yes, she has her own jeweler and yes, it’s ridiculous, I totally agree—but I appreciated that she did so. It’s one of those rare gestures she makes when she pretends that she cares about me.

I’m waiting for the moment when I can put a special someone’s photo inside, along with my own. But the one I’m most interested in is in complete denial, so I doubt his photo will end up in my locket. It will most likely remain empty forever.

And isn’t that just the saddest thing?