Paper Hearts

22

I had come to terms with the fact that I had—albeit unwillingly—fallen in love with Luke Callaway. But I had also come to terms with another fact, which was the completely true statement in which I assured myself that it would never happen again.

So I avoided him at school, weaving and dipping between classes and through hallways before he could catch sight of me. His number was still blocked from my phone, so that was taken care of, and I made a point to steer clear of places like local parties, the theatre, and the ice cream shop.

I had everything under control—Mom didn't know a thing, neither did Dad, and I hadn't seen Luke since our lunchtime interaction on Monday.

I knew every move Luke had, and I had been able to avoid him with ease and precision. My routes to everyday places were often elaborate—made up of back roads and unknown shortcuts—and I soon knew what was to be expected. Luke would give up, I would calm down, and I would attend the wedding alone. I no longer cared what my mother thought.

What I wasn't expecting, however, was the squealing of tires on pavement and bright, shining headlights outside my house at two o' clock in the morning.

I'd been watching television all night—Dad went to bed early with a headache, and I stayed up to finish a movie, and from there I just kept watching, not even slightly aware of what was on the screen anymore. I was still dressed in the clothes I wore to school, and my entire body was stiff from sitting so still.

But when I heard the loud noises outside, my heart leapt into my throat, and suddenly I was rushing to the window, nerves jittering and blood pumping.

When I saw what was outside, I could hardly believe my eyes.

It was Luke's truck, headlights blazing and exhaust rising, the driver himself honking the horn once, twice, three times—loud, blaring noises that rang out into the dead of the night and were sure to rile up neighbors fairly quickly.

Without even thinking, I was up, rushing to the front door and flinging it open, my bare feet slapping against the concrete as the cool air whipped around me, and I rushed to the truck, suddenly freezing as I wrenched the door open, mouth open in shock as I looked Luke Callaway straight in the eyes as he said,

"Get the hell in, Hemmings."

"What's going on?" I demanded, fury and elation and a thousand other things churning through my veins, "Don't you realize it's—"

"Two o' clock in the morning?" He finished, running his hands through his hair and blowing out a breath. "Yeah, Victoria, I do. But I also know that I'm going to go insane if you don't talk to me again and I just need you to forgive me, okay? So get in and shut up so I can take you to get your damn ice cream and we can confront our feelings like the grown adults that we are."

And I don't know if it was the spontaneity, or the adrenaline, or whatever else I was feeling—but I got in the truck. And I let him start driving. Just like I did on the day we met.

________

We didn't talk the entire way to the shop—there was no noise other than the static of the radio and the car engine, and I watched Luke silently from my spot in the passenger's seat. I hadn't realized how long it felt it had been since I last sat in it—comfortable, chatty, completely oblivious to the world of pain my heart would soon cause me.

And as I watched him, then, in that moment—the taut concentration of his face, the way his brows dug into his forehead, the overall anger and concern that overrode his features—I couldn't help but wonder if I might have, just maybe, had the same effect on him.