She’s laughing harder now, and it’s beautiful. Ty and Cass are lost in their own world, cuddling on Cass’s bed. I take a risk, and lean in, kissing her quickly on her cheek. Her laughter stops immediately, and her eyes go wide. “Don’t, Nate,” she says, her smile completely gone now. Well, shit.

“Sorry. You’re really pretty when you laugh, and a man can’t be held responsible for how he reacts to you laughing. You should be mindful of that. You could end up getting kissed by waiters at restaurants, professors, frat guys. No, wait. No frat guys. Just ugly waiters and old professors.”

She’s smiling again, not as big, but she’s not putting a wall up. Phew.

“Do you want to read why I like the ‘pretty’ painting?” she says, quoting the word pretty just to mock me. I love that she does it. I suck in my bottom lip and study her, just like she did to me moments before.

“Yeah. I do,” I say, flipping her notebook over, and scooting down to lay my head on her pillow. Her breath stops when I settle in, but eventually she moves down too, so she can look along with me while I read. Every single hair on my arm is stretching to touch her. But my kiss went horribly wrong, so I’m content to almost touch her for now.

The Girl with a Pearl Earring, by Johannes Vermeer.

“Right! I remember this one. They made a movie about it or something.” I sound so uneducated. My mom’s an artist—which, you’d think would make me more attuned to art, but instead, I just blocked it out. It just wasn’t in my wheelhouse. I’m more numbers, finance, and marketing. Our dad runs an accounting firm, and I take after him, so the creative side of my brain was sort of stunted.

I look to my right to see her lying next to me, smiling, and I have to take a deep breath to remind myself what I’m doing here. “Sorry. Reading now,” I grin, and then she nestles in closely, her chin on my shoulder while she watches my eyes follow the lines on her paper. I feel every tiny breath she takes, and time actually stops. My god, I have never wanted to kiss a girl more in my life.

I know she feels my chest puff with air when I have to take a deep breath just to calm down, because she backs away a few inches to give me space. But now that I know what that feels like, I’m not sure my shoulder will ever feel complete again.

“You’re not reading. Is it that bad?” she asks.

“No. I uh. You were. I’m reading,” I finally say, and I shuffle the notebook against my chest for a better view.

I’m the girl in this painting. Not literally, but I identify with her. It is the only painting that stopped me completely, and I know it’s because when I look into her eyes, I see myself. She’s hungry, but she’s bound by duty. Every part of her body is cloaked, at least from what you see. Her head is covered, and her bodice as well. But she bothers to put on this one pearl earring, sort of a rebellion to the path she’s on, almost like a warning flair for someone. She’s begging to be saved. And her eyes are looking right at me, like she’s asking me to save her. And her mouth is barely open, about to tell me her secrets, but there is never enough time. Instead, we’re stuck—the girl and I—at this juncture. I have to decide if I want to break her free. And she has to decide if she wants to let me. And every time I open the book and look at the page, we do the same dance all over again.

Rowe is staring at me. I may not know art, but I’m pretty sure there’s a reason Rowe made me read this. I’m just not sure if she wants me to break her free or if she’s warning me—if I pursue her, I’ll be stuck in a circle that never ends.

“It’s good,” I say, pulling myself to sit up, just needing to break the electricity firing from my arm to hers.

“Yeah?” she says, closing her book and reaching for the notebook, her fingers staying clear of mine this time.

“Yeah, I mean, it’s probably like a B. You didn’t really talk about the pretty colors and choice of oil versus acrylic, but it’s all right,” I tease, and she purses her lips, fighting against her smile before finally smacking me in the chest with her notebook.

“I can live with a B. I’m considering it done then,” she says, standing and putting her folder and book into her backpack. I notice she’s putting physical distance between us, and it makes me uneasy.

“So, my parents are here this weekend. They’re taking us to the football game tonight, and we, uh…we have an extra ticket. Cass is coming. Maybe…you wanna come?” I ask her when her back is to me, and I’m still a stuttering mess.