Free Eleven Weeks by Lauren K. McKellar

with a fully-fledged grin.
    Air rushes out of my lungs, and I can’t help but smile. “You know, that’s kind of stalky.”
    “Does that make you uncomfortable?” he asks, and I swallow. Michael takes another step closer to me, and I back up until I am flush with the brick wall. Barely an inch separates our bodies, and with each breath in I take, my chest moves closer to his.
    “So … um …” I clear my throat. “Did you just, like, walk the streets to try and find us?”
    Look straight ahead. Study the collar of his T-shirt.
    Do not make eye contact.
    I glance up.
    Shit!
    DO NOT MAKE EYE TO LIP CONTACT.
    “Nah, I was just doing a once over, then I was going to call or something.” He runs his hand through his hair, shrugging his shoulders as if it were no big deal.
    “Look, I also wanted to say I’m sorry about what a douche Dave has been. I know I texted you, but it just wasn’t cool, and I thought I should do an in-person apology.”
    I nod. “While we’re on the subject of apologies …” I clear my throat. My mind flashes back to memories of him sticking his finger up at me as he played. “… I should probably apologise to you.”
    “What for?” Michael asks.
    “For, um …” I bite my lip. Damn him for making this harder! “Letting some guy make out with my neck while you watched?”
    If you’ve ever seen a storm out at sea, you’d know exactly what I’m seeing now. Michael’s face goes from sunny, to stormy, to torrential, to sunny again, all in the blink of an eye. Or maybe I’m just flattering myself.
    Maybe he is simply confused and has no idea what I’m talking about.
    “Not even. It’s not like we’re dating.” He shrugs. A whoosh of air fills my lungs, and I’m not sure if it’s clouded with relief or sorrow. Are both this heavy? “Besides, it’s not like the kiss was a big deal.”
    “It … wasn’t?”
    “Nah, ’course not. You can kiss who you wanna kiss, even if it is some random dude at my concert.”
    Oh.
    He doesn’t care.
    Double oh.
    Michael takes a deep breath in then exhales, his lips forming a small pucker. My disappointment must show on my face, because I can see him processing the thoughts, giving small nods of his head as he no doubt decides what to say next. “Stacey, what you do is your choice. Let’s be honest: my whole life you’ve pretty much acted repulsed by me. It’s hardly like I stood a chance with you anyhow.”
    “Stood a chance?” I practically choke on my tongue. “What the hell are you talking about? You’ve never even asked me out before.”
    “Boys tease you because they like you?” Michael asks.
    “Seriously?” I shove at his chest. “You thought I was pretty, but a bimbo. Someone you couldn’t see a future with.” He opens his mouth to speak, but I hold up a finger in protest. “Don’t lie. I know it’s true.” Everyone does. No smart girl gets preggers at eighteen.
    “Hey, take it easy, Einstein. I didn’t know you wanted to be recognised for the scholar that you are,” Michael says, a smile warming his face again. “No bimbo I’ve ever met comes first in drama.”
    My cheeks warm. “It’s just a performance thing; anyone can do it.” I shrug, and study the tar beneath me. “And with only nine other people in the class …”
    “Hey.” Michael places his hand under my chin, tilting it up so I look into his eyes. “Not anyone; you .”
    This time, the heat flushes through my body and I bite down on the smile that creeps its way to the corners of my mouth. “I guess, I—”
    Before I can finish my sentence, Michael grabs my hand and pulls me out of the alleyway, back in the direction I came from. He darts into the shallow of a shopfront and jerks me in after him, my body landing flush against his.
    “She’s coming,” he breathes, the warm air from his words caressing my skin.
    He is right in front of me, his arms touching my arms, his legs touching my legs … his chest touching my