He stands in front of me. Never speaking. Never interrupting. Never telling me to stop or that I've had enough. He silently waits until I feel it leave me. Until all of those feelings are gone and is replaced with one that I thought I'd never feel again.

When I'm done, I silently walk to the embankment and lie down on the grass.

Minutes pass before he's there, lying next to me and linking our fingers together.

Not a single word is spoken.

No justification for what happened.

No explanation for my current tears.

When the cries finally subside and my breaths are level, I turn to him. "You're an artist?"

His shoulders tense. "No."

I release his hand and lean up on my elbow so I can see his face. "That's funny. I saw the flyer for Mark's sale. Whoever drew it is definitely an artist and he said it was you, so that makes you an artist. No?"

He sighs and mirrors my position so we're facing each other. "I wish I was an artist, Luce. But I'm not. Artists—they can picture things in their mind and let it flow out of them. I'm not like that. Yes, I can draw some things, but not all. I can't free hand." He laughs to himself. "Everything I do is lines, angles, symmetrical objects. What I do isn't hard. It's not creative. It's definitely not art. So no, I'm not an artist.

He looks away, his mind wandering to another place. His lips turn down to a frown, and I hate it. I hate that he knows how to fix me when I'm broken and I don't know how to do the same for him. "I tried to write a book once," I say.

He smiles now, his gaze returning to me. "Yeah?" he replies, moving a strand of hair to behind my ear.

I nod. "I got on my computer and typed four words. You wanna know what those four words were?"

"Please."

"Untitled. By Lucy Lovesalot."

He quirks an eyebrow. "Lovesalot?"

I shrug. "It was a pen name, but that's not the point. The point is, I tried. I tried and I got nothing. One day, I might try again. But you—you put pen to paper and you produced something. For me, and especially for Mark—who appreciates it so much that he wants to show the world—it's art. That makes you an artist, Cameron, regardless of how you want to see it."

His eyes widen slightly in surprise. And then he smiles; that same perfect smile that still makes me nervous. He leans in and kisses my forehead. "You make me want to try, Lovesalot." He pulls back and looks in my eyes. "You want me to take you home now?"

I shake my head. "Not just yet. Let's just stay here for a while."

"I was hoping you'd say that."

***

He doesn't ask, and I don't tell him, but we end up where we both wanted to be. His home.

We spent the rest of the afternoon at the river talking. And kissing. We did a lot of kissing.

I lie in his bed while my body fights a losing battle against sleep.

Touching my lips with the tip of my fingers, I smile against them. I can still feel his mouth on mine.

And there's that same feeling I had after my emotional release. The one that I thought I could never feel again.

Hope.

CHAPTER SIX

-CAMERON-

The next couple of days are a repeat of the last. We go to school, and then we go to the river. We hang out, talk, laugh, and learn more about each other. Each day gets better than the last.

Until today.

I rack my bike and face her. "Have lunch with me today?"

She shakes her head quickly. "I have to study."

"Where do you study?"

"Nowhere, really. Everywhere, kind of."

My eyes narrow. "That's not a real place." I step forward and take her hand. "Why won't you have lunch with me?"

She shrugs just as Logan walks up to us. "Hey, assface," he says, his eyes fixed on our joined hands.

She yanks her hand out of my hold. "See ya," she says, and then walks away.

"What's with her?" Logan asks, his gaze fixed on her ass.

I shove him. Hard. "Quit looking at her."

His eyes bug out. "Holy shit, dude. You got it bad."

"You were staring at her ass."

"I wasn't—"

"I claimed her! I said she was mine! You promised you'd leave her alone!"

His brows pinch, and he shoves me back. "I wasn't checking her out." Then a smirk develops. "Okay, maybe I was." He shrugs and starts to leave.

My fists ball at my sides. "Cocky little fuck," I shout after him.

He freezes and slowly turns around. "What did you say?"

I step forward. "You heard me."

"Fuck you, Cam. This bitch is making you crazy."

I snap. "Don't fucking call her that!" I lunge forward and tackle him to the ground. He's bigger than I am, but I'm angrier. And emotion always wins.

We don't get far before we're being pulled apart. Jake's annoying accent grinds on my nerves. "Leave it alone, mate," he says.

But I can't.

I can't let it go.

***

"I'm sorry." Logan sits opposite me in the cafeteria. "If I was looking at her like that, it wasn't intentional. I meant what I said. I'd never take my friend's girl. Ever."

I watch his face for a sign that he's fucking around, but there is none. "I can't find her."

"She left school?"

"I doubt it." I shake my head. "Yo, if I liked reading, where would I go?"