The Opposition

Chapter 40: Carter

If you told me, when I came to Fairridge at the start of freshman year, that Sadie Jones would be my girlfriend, I would've laughed in your face or, more likely, told you that you're fucking stupid. Now, I'm the stupid one. Because I was wrong. And the proof is sitting beside me, head on my shoulder, reading an Anastasia-recommended novel. The fantasy novel I bought a week ago with Sadie is lying open on my lap. We've been like this for three hours, engrossed in our novels. I feel my love for reading rekindling as my fingers itch to flip the page to discover what lies ahead.

I spent the night in Conners room, gossiping about my relationship with Sadie. Conner Conners has always been a gossip, and I have no problem fuelling him with more. But, as soon as my alarm rang bright and early in the morning, I snuck back into my room, finding Sadie wide awake in the middle of the room, one hand on her hip and the other holding a painting. My lips rose when I noticed what painting she was holding.

"This painting is of me," she stated.

"You are correct," I told her. "Gold star."

"Fuck off, Conners," she said, restraining a smile. "Why do you have a painting of me in your bedroom?"

"You don't recognize it?" I asked her, the corners of my lips lifting.

Sadie loved to mock my art skills by constantly mentioning the horrific drawing of her I did when we were studying portrait art. The task was to draw your partner on a canvas and then paint it. I drew a poor sketch of her face to piss her off when I received a perfect score on the piece. I actually spent that day in my dorm redrawing the portrait. All from memory because Sadie's beauty was permanently ingrained in my brain.

Realization crossed her face. "You got a perfect score on this?"

"You like it, don't you?"

The painting had a deep blue, almost black, background. Sadie's face took up almost all of the canvas, the top of a white Fairridge button up on the bottom. She wasn't smiling in the painting. She wore her usual fierce expression that pouted her lips and creased her brows. The best part of the painting–in my opinion–was her eyes, swirls of green, brown, and gold hidden behind fluttery lashes.

Anyone else would probably would've saw the piece and found it romantic, true evidence of my long-standing infatuation with Sadie Jones. But I don't want anyone else. I want Sadie. And Sadie said, "I hate it. It's nowhere near deserving of a perfect score."

I tapped the top of her head with the canvas I stole out of her hands and captured her mouth with mine.

Now, my back is pressed up against my headboard while Sadie curls up to me under the comforter. She lets out a slew of curses under her breath, aimed towards the main character of her book, who, according to her, is a bit of an airhead. My MC is a badass girl who pointes garnet-studded daggers at any man that gets in her way. She reminds me of Sadie, when she pointed that chef's knife at me.

"How could Ana recommend this book?" Sadie scoffs, scrutinizing the cover.

I stare at her, not adding to her comment. She's in my room. On my bed. This feels unreal. This morning, when I walked into the room and opened the blinds, sun streaming into the room, Sadie flung two hands over her face–momentarily dropping the painting, which she was holding in the dark–saying that the beams of light were burning her corneas. I started laughing. Sadie doesn't realize how precious she is. I'm sure the sun rises every day just so she can get pissed off at how bright it is.

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

I could tell her my thought about her preciousness, but I settle on a synonym. "You are exquisite."