Tom's POV
Before I knew it, I found myself inside one of Imogen's many cars—a sleek black Maserati. To say she was well-off? That was an understatement. Her family was stupid rich. But for some reason, she never flaunted it like other rich kids did. She was humble, down-to-earth—something I couldn't quite wrap my head around. She drove us to a local frozen yogurt place, turning to me with a bright smile. "Hope you like frozen yogurt," she said, stepping out of the car and expecting me to follow.
I didn't really want to go. My legs felt like they had a mind of their own, moving without my say-so. Why was I so drawn to her? Why couldn't I control myself around her? I watched her walk inside, her confidence effortless, as I hesitated for a moment before following. She got to the counter and started ordering, leaving me to sit at a nearby table, scrolling through my phone. But my thoughts were far from here, spiraling in a hundred directions.
"Hey, what flavor do you want, Tom?" she asked suddenly, drawing me out of my thoughts.
Her voice was soft but clear, and I barely registered the question. I was too busy thinking about her—how my name sounded coming from her lips, smooth and natural, like it belonged there. Like we were supposed to be something more. I shrugged in response, my eyes still glued to the screen. I didn't care what flavor she picked for me. I cared about why she was suddenly taking an interest in me, why I was letting her.
Imogen sat directly across from me, sliding a cup of chocolate chip frozen yogurt across the table. "Thanks," I muttered, pocketing my phone and turning my full attention to the yogurt. I took my first bite, trying to focus on the taste, but I kept my eyes averted. I could feel her gaze—she was trying to look me in the eyes, and I didn't want to give her the satisfaction. "How is it?" she asked, her voice curious, her eyes studying me as if waiting for my answer. I shrugged, avoiding her gaze. "Fine."
"Fine? Just fine?" she pressed, her tone playful but persistent, making me finally look up at her. "Fine. It's good," I replied, a little more firmly this time.
We sat in silence after that, eating our yogurt, the uncomfortable quiet stretching between us. Neither of us really knew what to say, but I could feel that unspoken tension lingering. When we finished, she reached for the cup, and we both stood up. Without a word, we headed back to her Maserati, the sleek engine purring to life as she started the car. We sped back toward school, the hum of the engine filling the space between us, each lost in our own thoughts.
As we reached the parking lot, I hopped out of the damn car while she locked it up. She waved goodbye to me without looking back—like we didn't just skip going to the principal's office to go eat frozen yogurt. Seriously, what the hell was that? I watched her walk into the school hall, her back straight and unbothered, like she didn't give a shit about any of it. I just shook my head and headed back inside as the bell rang for fourth period. Art class—my favorite.
I stepped into the classroom relieved she wasn't there, but there was this strange, tight feeling in my chest—like a pang of emotion I couldn't quite place, and honestly, I didn't want to think about it. This was one of the few classes we didn't have together, and I was damn grateful for that. I took a seat in front of a blank drawing canvas, trying to focus. Mr. Andris, our art and Spanish teacher, strode to the front of the class with that calm, no-nonsense look.
"Hola… Today, we will be looking at expressing your thoughts through art," he said smoothly. "I know every day we focus on envisioning something specific, but today I want you to let your body do the drawing. Hold the pencil to the canvas and close your eyes. Try to think of nothing as you press the pencil to the paper."
I nodded, and so did everyone else. I love art class—this is the one place I can just be myself, no bullshit, no pretenses. But instead of clearing my mind, my thoughts drifted off to her.