before.”
True, but he wasn’t in the mood. “Maybe next time.”
She gaped at him as he climbed into his car and drove away. He headed straight to the house and walked through the front door, abruptly coming to a halt. Cold air drifted inside behind him, making the hair on his arm to stand on end as his father’s voice carried through the quiet downstairs. “Let me see your report card.”
It was nearing midnight. Tired and frustrated, Carmine just wanted to go to bed, but instead, he'd walked into an ambush. “My report card?”
“Yes, your report card. I was hoping you’d get home before I left so I could see it. And don’t bother trying to lie. Dominic showed me his, so I know you got them.”
Fucking suck up . Carmine dropped his backpack on the floor and dug through it for the piece of paper. He thrust it at his father, and Vincent scanned it. “You’re failing History?”
“Mrs. Anderson hates me.”
“And that's why you’re failing?”
“Yes.”
“So it has nothing to do with the fact that you rarely do your work, you skip more than you go, and you repeatedly talk back? Because that’s what her comment says.”
“Maybe a little,” he said. “Look, I tried, but no amount of extra credit would bring that shit up. Not that she'd let me do extra credit, anyway. Like I said, she hates me.”
Vincent glanced back at the report card. “You passed everything else. It's a lot better than I expected, to be honest.”
“It's nice to know you have faith in me, Dad.”
“I'm a realist,” Vincent said. “I know you.”
“People change,” Carmine said.
Vincent shook his head, scribbling his signature on the report card to signify he’d seen it. “It'll take a lot more than a bunch of C's and D’s for me to believe you're any different.”
* * * *
Haven lay in bed, listening to the soft music drifting in from the library. It was the same melody as every other night, one that usually lulled her to sleep, but tonight she couldn’t shut off her mind.
She’d kept her distance from Carmine, wanting the strange feelings inside of her to stop. She didn’t get why her chest felt like it would burst when he spoke, why her skin got the prickly sensation whenever he came near, or why she felt dizzy when she heard his laughter. It didn’t make sense that thoughts of him made parts of her awaken that had always been asleep.
She barely knew him—she’d made a point not to—but it didn't make a difference, because the feelings came anyway.
Grabbing some paper, Haven started to sketch a picture of Carmine. Every detail of his face was etched in her memory: the shape of his jaw, the curve of his lips, the arch of his eyebrows, and the angle of his nose. She remembered his eyes, the way they sparkled in the light. He had some freckles on his nose and cheeks from the sun, and a small blemish on the right side of his bottom lip. The scar through his eyebrow fascinated her, and the wound on his forehead had also left a mark.
As she lay there, she found herself wondering how she’d noticed all of those things.
After it was finished, she held the drawing up to look at it in the light. Something was off, the rough sketch flat and colorless. It didn’t hold a fraction of the emotion that the music carried as it filtered under her door.
Frustrated, she balled up the paper and tossed it aside.
* * * *
Carmine knew Haven was avoiding him again… he just couldn’t figure out why. He thought they’d had a good time hanging out together, but she was playing some backward game of hide-and-seek, one where she hid and hoped like hell he didn’t seek her out.
He tried to wait it out, giving her time to relax, but it wasn’t working and he was low on patience. It was around two o’clock in the morning when his frustration boiled over. Insomnia plagued him, so he set down his guitar and strolled over to her bedroom. Debating briefly, he tapped on the door. Her light was on
True, but he wasn’t in the mood. “Maybe next time.”
She gaped at him as he climbed into his car and drove away. He headed straight to the house and walked through the front door, abruptly coming to a halt. Cold air drifted inside behind him, making the hair on his arm to stand on end as his father’s voice carried through the quiet downstairs. “Let me see your report card.”
It was nearing midnight. Tired and frustrated, Carmine just wanted to go to bed, but instead, he'd walked into an ambush. “My report card?”
“Yes, your report card. I was hoping you’d get home before I left so I could see it. And don’t bother trying to lie. Dominic showed me his, so I know you got them.”
Fucking suck up . Carmine dropped his backpack on the floor and dug through it for the piece of paper. He thrust it at his father, and Vincent scanned it. “You’re failing History?”
“Mrs. Anderson hates me.”
“And that's why you’re failing?”
“Yes.”
“So it has nothing to do with the fact that you rarely do your work, you skip more than you go, and you repeatedly talk back? Because that’s what her comment says.”
“Maybe a little,” he said. “Look, I tried, but no amount of extra credit would bring that shit up. Not that she'd let me do extra credit, anyway. Like I said, she hates me.”
Vincent glanced back at the report card. “You passed everything else. It's a lot better than I expected, to be honest.”
“It's nice to know you have faith in me, Dad.”
“I'm a realist,” Vincent said. “I know you.”
“People change,” Carmine said.
Vincent shook his head, scribbling his signature on the report card to signify he’d seen it. “It'll take a lot more than a bunch of C's and D’s for me to believe you're any different.”
* * * *
Haven lay in bed, listening to the soft music drifting in from the library. It was the same melody as every other night, one that usually lulled her to sleep, but tonight she couldn’t shut off her mind.
She’d kept her distance from Carmine, wanting the strange feelings inside of her to stop. She didn’t get why her chest felt like it would burst when he spoke, why her skin got the prickly sensation whenever he came near, or why she felt dizzy when she heard his laughter. It didn’t make sense that thoughts of him made parts of her awaken that had always been asleep.
She barely knew him—she’d made a point not to—but it didn't make a difference, because the feelings came anyway.
Grabbing some paper, Haven started to sketch a picture of Carmine. Every detail of his face was etched in her memory: the shape of his jaw, the curve of his lips, the arch of his eyebrows, and the angle of his nose. She remembered his eyes, the way they sparkled in the light. He had some freckles on his nose and cheeks from the sun, and a small blemish on the right side of his bottom lip. The scar through his eyebrow fascinated her, and the wound on his forehead had also left a mark.
As she lay there, she found herself wondering how she’d noticed all of those things.
After it was finished, she held the drawing up to look at it in the light. Something was off, the rough sketch flat and colorless. It didn’t hold a fraction of the emotion that the music carried as it filtered under her door.
Frustrated, she balled up the paper and tossed it aside.
* * * *
Carmine knew Haven was avoiding him again… he just couldn’t figure out why. He thought they’d had a good time hanging out together, but she was playing some backward game of hide-and-seek, one where she hid and hoped like hell he didn’t seek her out.
He tried to wait it out, giving her time to relax, but it wasn’t working and he was low on patience. It was around two o’clock in the morning when his frustration boiled over. Insomnia plagued him, so he set down his guitar and strolled over to her bedroom. Debating briefly, he tapped on the door. Her light was on
Similar Books
