Pretty Girls ⇼ Luke Hemmings

Brains and Eyeballs.

"Have you ever been to the Harn Museum of Art?" I blurted out as Luke and I ate lunch, in hope to reignite the conversation. "I used to go with my parents. We'd come all the way up here just to look at some paintings. I used to hate it, but now I wonder if I'd have a better appreciation for it now that I can understand the hard work and back stories."

"No. I haven't. Thought about it, though. I didn't want to go alone, and the boys wouldn't go with, so..." his voice trailed off, his shoulders hiking up in a shrug.

"Oh. It's lovely. You should really go." Luke nodded, dragging a hand across his neatly shaved chin. His eyes scanned the cafeteria before shifting back to me. "I just thought, since you like art so much, that you'd appreciate it." His lips pulled into a smile.

"Would you go with me?" he asked, lightening my mood. As many times as he told me that he wanted to be alone with me today (and yesterday, and tomorrow), he still couldn't help taking me out. Maybe he really was changing. Maybe everything would be alright after all.

"I would love to." I smiled.

"Today?" he asked, becoming excited. It reminded me of a young child. The way he was so ecstatic and on the edge of his seat.

"I have to study for my finals, we already took the day off yesterday to see my family." I giggled and he shrugged, trying to seem subtle but ultimately failing. He didn't have any finals—he was strictly sticking around for me, hanging out with me while I studied for my Bio and Art History final that were both schedule the night after Luke left. His plane left around 9am, and we planned for me to come with to drop him off. Then, I'd do some last minute studying, to make up for the time lost, until 7pm. The next morning, mom and dad were due to pick me up and take me home at 10.

"You can study tonight. Come on, we only have today and tomorrow. Make the most of that time with me." It saddened me—the way he so desperately wanted to spend time with me, doing anything and everything. "What if we take the bus and you study on the way there? I won't bother you, I swear." He mouthed a please, trying not to seem clingy or persistent. I couldn't possibly reject his offer.

All he wanted to do was turn back time, to make our previous lazy afternoons worth something; to give me something to hold onto before he left; to present memories that would never leave my brain no matter how hard I forced them out.

"Okay." I promised, gathering my things quickly, at the expense of his impatience. "Let's go." Nearly jumping out of his seat, he grabbed my hand and walked toward the door at a fast pace. I couldn't ignore the feeling I had. Deep inside my stomach, tingling. Ticking. Like a bomb was about to go off inside me.

When the bus came, we boarded and Luke paid my fare. He guided me to a seat in the back, sitting so close that our legs were touching. He didn't seem to notice, though. I did. I wanted more than anything to reach over and set my hand on his thigh, like I have seen girls do to their boyfriends. Is that the normal thing to do? There was a couple sitting a few seats in front of us, her head was set on his shoulder, his hand on her upper thigh, and they were speaking quietly. Maybe we could do that. If our time together wasn't running out, I would. I'd take the risk and show the public display of affection. Then again, he's only ever held me in front of his friends. He's never shown me much affection in front of strangers. I couldn't possibly face the rejection of him not wanting to hold me right now. As much as I wanted him to, I had to respect his boundaries. And; as always, if we hadn't fought yesterday, I'd be much more comfortable leaning into his touch. But fighting, for us, is inevitable.

I wonder how he'd react. If I just set my head on his shoulder. Would he pull away? Or accept it? Perhaps I should take a less subtle approach. Like touching his arm. Or accidentally touch his leg. I took a deep breath, staring at the ink stained into his skin. Delicately reaching over, I ran my finger over one. He looked at the patterns my fingers traced, seeming unphased. He leaned over and pressed a kiss on my forehead, his fingers interlacing with mine. His grip didn't leave mine the entire ride. We didn't talk much, he only stared out the window, his thumb running over the back of my hand until we reached our bus stop and he led me off.