The Heart Wants What It Wants

♡ CHAPTER SEVEN ♡

❝ ɪᴛ ɪs ɪᴍᴘᴏssɪʙʟᴇ ᴛᴏ ғᴏʀɢᴇᴛ sᴏᴍᴇᴏɴᴇ
ᴡʜᴏ ɢᴀᴠᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ʙᴇᴀᴜᴛɪғᴜʟ ᴍᴇᴍᴏʀɪᴇs ❞

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🇬 🇦 🇧 🇷 🇮 🇪 🇱 🇱 🇦 :

One week later.

The morning bell rings overheard as I place my bookbag in my locker. I place my canvas between my legs as I stand on my toes to reach for my first period books.

Last week, my art teacher had given the class an assignment. We had to draw—or paint— something that came from the very pit of our souls. She'd told us to close our eyes, let our subconscious form a picture in the darkness, and put that on our canvas.

I'd used the project as a distraction to cover the fact that my landlord would soon kick me out of his house. Today is the day he does that. I'm sure if I get home this afternoon, I'll find a note on the door telling me to pack up my shit and leave.

I tried looking for apartments for the time being. Something close to the school so that I don't waste gas either, but there were none that were a couple of minutes away. The closest one was located three hours outside San Fernando, and cost about an arm and a leg.

Note to self; Google shelters in the area during lunch.

I shut my locker after placing the books needed for the first three periods in a sling bag I'd bought a couple days ago, and pick the canvas up with enough care like one would handle a newborn baby.

I hadn't really taken in all of the painting I'd made. Mainly because I knew, even if I didn't want to acknowledge it, my subconscious would always bring something up from the life I left behind in New York.

I know, because sometimes I still dream about them. Mom. Dad. Kaz. I sometimes wonder what my life would've been like if I stayed. Maybe five years from now, Dad would've gone to rehab and turned his life around.

And maybe, just maybe, Kaz would've come back and picked up where we left off. Deep down, in the very pit of my soul, I know, no matter how badly hurt I was when he left, if I saw his face again, I wouldn't even be the slightest bit mad. I'd want him to hug me and tell me that he's never leaving again.

Because, I know in my heart, I'd love him even if he ripped my heart to shreds over and over again. I'd love him even if he betrayed me or left me for dead. I'd love him, and he'd love me, and that would always be enough for me.

I pull the canvas out from under my arm and hold it up in front of me, and sure enough, it is what I thought it would be. Although, slightly altered. It's what I imagine Kaz would look like now.

A light beard. Tattoos on both sleeves. Slightly long hair brushed back. It's what he'd said he would look like when he was older. And back then, at the tender age of thirteen with my hormones all over the place, I'd imagine a beautiful man. All rugged and handsome to the point of it being painful to look at him for too long.

He sits on a park bench in Central Park, a beautiful sunset in the background. His favourite view, aside from me, he'd said once. I remember blushing like crazy that day.

I told myself I wouldn't reminisce on the past before I'd left the city, but, looking back, not all of those memories are so bad. All the ones with Kaz bring me an indescribable amount of joy, and, right now, with all that's going on, I really need it. Even if the aftermath of thinking about him is, majority of the time, unbearably painful.

I go to tuck the canvas underneath my arm, but I am too slow. I walk straight into someone who comes barreling from another corridor. My heart sinks when the person's arm gets stuck in the canvas. Kaz's face split into three separate parts.

"No, no, no, no!" My voice cracks at the end, and I drop the painting as if it had burnt me, letting it hang on the person's arm. I take a step back, tears welling in my eyes, making it hard to see the culprit of this disaster.

"Shit," that voice. That goddamn voice that makes my stomach flutter. Rage bubbles up my throat as my hands ball into fists.

"Chéri, I—"

"I'd taken a week to paint that. An entire fucking week! And you broke it in a fucking second you— you— you inconsiderate halfwit!" My lungs burn as I try to catch my breath. I force the tears back.

He's staring at me with a blank expression but his eyes hold one emotion that's clear as day. Regret. But I refuse to see it as that. I may be overreacting just a little bit, but that painting holds more than just a term mark over my head.

"I'm really sorry," he says softly, pulling the painting off his arm and handing it to me. I take it and bite the inside of my cheek to fight the urge to strangle him right here, right now.

"Sorry isn't gonna help me pass my class, Hunter." Disappointment settles on my chest and I decide there's no point in making a big deal over something that's going to stay ruined.

I settle on going to class early. I almost forget pretty boy has the first two periods with me, when he starts walking in step with me. The words that he's desperate to speak out loud hangs between us, and just before we turn to go to the fourth floor, he speaks up. A hint of a smile in his voice.

"You just said my name," my brow draws tight and my gaze snaps to him. He can't be serious. That's all he got from what happened back there?

"Are you being for real right now?!" I can't help but raise my voice. His eyebrows shoot up, and he tilts his head to the side as if he's confused.

"Yes?" He says, making me scoff and shake my head, unbelieving. He stops me outside Mr Garcia's class, and I look up at him, expectantly.

"I'll—" I arch a brow at him when he lets out a harsh breath. "I'll make it up to you." A short laugh falls from my lips.

The day I let him make anything up to me is the day I let myself forget Kaz. Safe to say, that's never going to happen.

"How about you just leave me alone?" I nod once as if we both had agreed to that, and walk into the classroom.