For Summer and me, it produces the opposite effect.
In the days following our confrontation, we keep our distance, tiptoeing around one another and speaking only out of necessity. There isn’t any malice behind it, just extreme awkwardness on both our parts. I suspect she still thinks I’m an ass for saying what I said, and I still feel like one.
To make matters worse, she and Hunter have been hanging out a lot. A few times, I’ve caught them sitting real close to each other on the couch. No PDA or overtly sexual vibes, but it’s clear they enjoy each other’s company. Hunter flirts with her every chance he gets, and Summer doesn’t seem to mind.
I mind.
I mind a little too much, and that’s why I’m holed up in my bedroom on Sunday night after our win against Dartmouth instead of partying downstairs with my teammates. And we beat Suffolk yesterday too, so technically it’s a double celebration.
But I’m not in the mood to watch Hunter hit on Summer. Plus, my entire body feels like one giant bruise.
The Dartmouth game was a rough one. Lots of hits (not all of them clean), lots of penalties (not all of them called), and one groin injury to a Dartmouth defenseman that made my balls shrivel and retreat like a frightened turtle. Needless to say, I’m tired, sore, and cranky.
The music blasting downstairs keeps trying to drown out the playlist pouring from my computer speakers. It’s a weird mix of bluegrass and indie rock, which for some reason lends itself well to this free draw exercise I’m currently putting myself through. Sometimes, when I’m creatively blocked, I’ll lie on my back, sketchpad on my lap, pencil in hand. I’ll close my eyes, breathe in and out, slow and steady, and allow my pencil to draw whatever it wants.
My high school art teacher urged me to try it one day, claiming it’s as effective as meditation in clearing the mind, opening the creative floodgates. She was right—whenever I’m blocked, free drawing does the trick.
I’m not certain how long I lie there, sketching with my eyes closed, but by the time I register that my pencil’s no longer sharp and my wrist is cramping, the music in the living room has ceased, and my own playlist has restarted itself.
Shaking out my wrist, I slide into a sitting position. I stare down at my sketch and discover that I’ve drawn Summer.
Not the season. The girl.
And not the girl with the dazzling smile. Not the laughing Summer, or the Summer whose cheeks go brighter than Red Delicious apples when she’s pissed at me.
I drew the Summer whose green eyes shimmered with pain as she’d whispered the words, “I have substance.”
On the page, her full lips are frozen in time. But in my mind, they’re quivering as she takes a shaky breath. The sketch hints at the tears clinging to her lower lashes, conveying an air of vulnerability that tugs at my heart. But the tight set of her jaw tells you she won’t go down without a fight.
I suck in a breath.
She’s completely and utterly perfect for the character in the new game I’m designing. I’ve been working on the assets for the past few months but haven’t found any inspiration for the female lead, and it’s been slowing my production.
I stare at the sketch for nearly five minutes before forcing myself to close the pad and put it away. The moment my brain snaps out of art mode and into I’m-a-living-breathing-creature mode, I realize not only do I have to piss like a racehorse, but I’m hungrier than that horse and could probably eat it. My stomach rumbles so loudly I’m surprised I didn’t notice the hunger pangs until now.
I take care of the bladder issue first, then go downstairs to scrounge up some food. From the staircase, I hear a wave of laughter from the living room and Hollis’ voice saying, “That’s what I’m talkin’ about!” Usually when Mike Hollis sounds this excited about something, it’s either the most horrifying thing in the world or unimaginably awesome. No in between with that guy.
Curiosity has me following Mike’s voice instead of turning toward the kitchen. When I approach the doorway, I feel like I’ve been transported back to the eighth grade. A bunch of people are still over. Including my team captain, Nate, who’s rubbing his hands gleefully, urging the bottle on the table to stop in front of him.
Yes, I said bottle.
Either I’m hallucinating, or my college-aged friends are playing Spin the Bottle. They’re on the floor or sitting on various pieces of furniture in some semblance of a circle. Clearly Summer was the spinner, because she’s leaning forward from the couch, watching the bottle. Meanwhile, all the single dudes in the room are watching her. Beyond hopeful.