Paper Hearts

15

Being the gentleman he was, Luke allowed me to choose the ice cream flavor, despite his winning the game. Once I'd ordered a cup of some new strawberry-cheesecake flavor, he led me to a table outside, where the sun was just beginning to lower itself into the horizon. A warm breeze wafted through the air, and I closed my eyes briefly, enjoying the sweet, cold dessert melting on my tongue in the somewhat warm afternoon.

"So we're down to about three weeks left," Luke said pointedly, and I nodded, opening my eyes to see that he wasn't looking at me, but rather at some point in the space behind me. I tried to ignore his sudden lack of eye contact and replied,

"Yeah, I—I guess we are."

He cleared his throat, and I wasn't sure what else I could say. I felt nervous whenever I thought about my mother—even more so when I thought about my mother questioning me—and insurmountably more so when I thought about my mother questioning Luke.

So I shoved the thought of my mother herself out of my head entirely and tried to change the subject, my gaze falling to Luke's wrist.

"I didn't know you have a tattoo." I said, my voice light and breezy as I touched a finger to his wrist. He turned it over, bringing his eyes up to mine as he said,

"It's not permanent. I have a friend who's a tattoo artist, and she just gives me a temporary one every week. That way, I can try it out without having to, you know...keep it."

I nodded, brow furrowed, and looked down at the temporary tattoo. It was simple—two circles overlapping, almost like a—

"Is that a Venn diagram?" I asked, holding back an incredulous laugh. "Like, the ones we did in eighth grade?"

"Yeah," Luke replied, smiling. He paused for a second, looking down at it before saying, "I kind of like it, you know. Venn diagrams are just graphs describing the differences between two things, and then—in the middle—everything that they share. Their similarities."

He took my hand and lowered it onto the middle part, right where the circles met, intersecting, creating a space.

"I like to consider myself that middle space." Luke said, quietly, "Not quite one thing or another. Not a stark difference. It's not like I'm either a good guy or a bad one. I'm a firm believer in the idea that I can be both."

I glanced up at him once more, breathless, my finger still resting on the would-be tattoo.

"If you believe in it so much," I said, softly, "Why won't you get it for real? Make it permanent?"

At this, Luke leaned back with a laugh.

"It's all about perspective, Victoria. You might think something is exactly what you want, until it's a permanent part of your life and you can't change it. That's when you begin to have regrets."

I just looked at him, astounded.

"Rough drafts," he said simply. "That's all these are. Choices. Options. Possibilities. Just like you and me. We're not final; we're not permanent. We're rough around the edges, and we don't last forever, but we can always start over again. That's the beauty of it—we're rough drafts, and we can recreate ourselves into whoever we want to be."

I blinked, taking this in.

I could be anyone I wanted to be? Impossible.

But a part of me—a deep down, tucked away, no-one-can-see part of me—wanted to believe it.

________

The next day at school, I was unnerved by how quiet the hallways had become whenever I walked through them. I could hear every click of my locker combination, every footstep I took against the tile floors. I felt a thousand pairs of eyes on me, and by the time my first class began, I was desperate to know what was going on.

I found Rachael Whims leaning back in her chair towards the very back of the classroom, not meeting my gaze as I slid my binder into the empty seat beside her and whispered,

"Would you mind telling me what the hell is going on around here?"

Her piercing copper eyes flicked over to mine before redirecting to the front. Her lips barely moved as she answered,

"I don't know. You tell me."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You're the one hooking up with Luke Callaway."

The words hit me like a sack of bricks; my head spun as I gasped,

"What?"

"And you didn't even bother to tell me. You know, a heads-up would have been nice before you completely disappeared from my life, but I guess you were to busy doing—"

"Rachael, no." I replied, aghast. "I'm not—we're not—"

"People have seen you around with him. You stopped answering my calls. We never talk; I hardly even see you. It's not hard to put two and two together, Vicki; I'm not an idiot."

"Rachael, that's not what this is. I'm taking him to my mom's wedding; that's all."

"I don't think a wedding calls for so much quality time."

"But it does," I insisted, pinching the bridge of my nose and shutting my eyes in frustration. "There's a lot we need to go over—"

"Oh, I'm sure," she replied, her voice a sarcastic drawl. "I'm sure that's all it is. Because you would definitely feel the need to ditch your best friend for some guy you barely know. It makes total sense now, Vick, thanks for clearing that up."

"Rachael," I cut in, beginning to get annoyed, "If you would just listen—"

"No, you listen." She snapped, her voice a harsh whisper. "I've had a week to think about this, and I'm not going to let the opportunity pass. For your information, Quentin Flounders asked me out the other day, but I said no, because I was planning on hanging out with you. But were you there to hear about it? No. And did I potentially just ruin what could have been the best relationship of my life? Yes. So before you get all defensive on me, just know that I've been waiting around for you, and I don't know what exactly is going on, but I no longer want any part of it."

Just as she finished that sentence, the bell that signaled the start of class rang, and Rachael picked up her things and walked away, leaving me dumbstruck.

________

She hates me, I texted Luke that afternoon as I walked to the theatre. She thinks we're hooking up.

What's so wrong with that idea? Came his reply, and he must have known that it made me frustrated, because a second later he texted,

Just kidding.

Shaking my head, I entered the fine arts building and pushed open the theatre doors to find Luke sitting there, looking at his phone—but he wasn't alone.

"Who's this?" I asked, pointing to a curly-haired kid with glasses and a chewed pencil in hand.

"That's Nolan." Luke replied, with a dismissive wave of his hand.

At the sound of his name, Nolan lifted his head and gave a half-smile before standing and making his way to me, jutting out a hand.

"My name is Nolan Johnson, and I am atrociously blunt." He said, his voice matter-of-factly. "I will tell you the truth in all situations, no matter how offensive it may seem."

"You'll get used to it," Luke said from behind him, and I caught sight of him from over Nolan the Honesty Scout's shoulder; his eyes crinkled in silent laughter.

"Um," I said, looking back at Nolan. "Okay. Uh—hi."

At this, he looked me up and down, saying, "That shirt is so not your color."

Brows furrowed, I looked down at the blue fabric of what I was wearing and opened my mouth to protest.

"Don't." Luke interrupted, before I could say anything, "You'll only make it worse."

"I apologize for any emotional trauma I may have caused upon informing you that the shade of your clothing does not suit your skin tone," Nolan said, making his way back to his seat, and I swore he was the most direct person I'd ever met in my life.

Avoiding eye contact with him, I sped over to Luke's seat, hissing,

"Why did you bring him?"

"Nolan's a friend of mine. Always has been."

"Okay," I said, "But why did you bring him here?"

At this, Luke looked up at me, shrugging.

"I thought he might be able to help."

"Luke, he's...he's..."

"Obnoxiously truthful?" Came Nolan's voice from the back, and I stiffened, taken aback by the fact that he could hear us. "Psychotically honest?"

"No," I replied, my voice several octaves higher than usual. "I was going to say quirky."

"I don't believe you, Victoria."

"He knows my name?" I whispered to Luke, incredulous, and he laughed.

"Of course he does. And now you know his. Calm down, Victoria, he's fine. He's going to help us out on the days he's not in group therapy."

"The days he's not in what?"

"You heard him." Nolan piped up. "Group therapy. For people like me. Some are compulsive liars, some are kleptomaniacs, some like to set things on fire—and then there are some who tell the truth in all situations, no matter what."

"Yeah." Luke said, with a large grin. "I'm not just friends with all the cool kids, Victoria. These are the kind of people who I've stuck around with for a long time. Nolan's my pal."

"I don't think pal is the word to use, Lucas." Nolan said. "More like acquaintance."

"What do you mean?" Luke asked over his shoulder. "We've been best friends since, like, kindergarten!"

"And yet I feel no need to call you a pal."

"Whatever, Nolan. Talk nonsense all you want. The point is, you're going to help Victoria and I."

"Yes."

"And you're going to be polite to her, even if it means restraining from telling the truth."

"No." he replied evenly, and I flicked my gaze back up to meet his. He smiled. "If she's brave enough to take a practical stranger to her mother's wedding, then she's brave enough to take some constructive criticism."

So apparently this compulsive truth-teller knew everything. Wonderful.

"He's harmless," Luke said, turning to me. "If I can trust him, you can trust him."

I nodded slowly, turning back around to the front, when Nolan's voice rang out through the theatre again.

"Victoria, how's your friend Rachael doing? Or are you even friends anymore?"

"Piss off, Nolan," Luke replied, and I couldn't help but crack a smile.