HISTORY

Look at the way he's stacking up the wood, like he's some type of macho man. Obviously trying to impress me. He's completely clueless that he's overrated in my mind. And his jeans are way too tight. You know, he's not as hot as he thinks he is with sweat dripping down his forehead. And his neck. And his chest. And- Stop it.

... News flash, Owen. We're history.

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1. One

"Okay kids, get to work." Ms. Hazel says, without looking up. She types frantically on her laptop, and the screen creates a glare on her glasses. Her eyes shift upward when she sees that nobody has moved. "Come on, you're all slower than my ex-husband. We have tons of stuff that needs to get done, lets go!" she stomps her foot and we all start to walk a bit faster. I make it my business to get the paint out and start working on the mural for the school's play production. I've barely started, and if I don't get to it soon, I'll never be able to pick up my grade by the end of the semester. 

"Want some help?" The familiar deep voice sends chills through my bones. Not the good kind. 

"No thanks." I reply, forcing myself to keep focus on the orange smears before my eyes. "I'm pretty sure you have other things to do." 

"I don't mind-"

"No, Owen. I'm fine. You still have to finish building the platform for the beach scene." 

"True." he admits, and I hear his long sigh. "By the way, you have talent, Brooks. Nice mural." 

"Thanks." My jaw clenches while I continue to blend my colors together. Don't look at him. 

"Not even a smile for me?" he chuckles, the raspy grumble I used to love. Frankly, now I find it irritating. 

"I suggest you get on that platform before Hazel puts you in detention." I snicker, giving him a small smirk so he'll finally walk away. 

"Same old Presley."

"What is that supposed to mean?" I look at him for the first time and frown.

"Presley Brooks center stage!" Ms. Hazel calls. I drop my brush and glare at the chest in front of my nose, then I strut over to my teacher. I have to stop myself from turning around to choke him after I hear the hoarse giggle from over my shoulder. 

"Yes Ma'am?"

"When are you gonna get to painting that bridge for the break-up scene?" 

"I'm sorry I haven't gotten to it. I'm still doing the mural." 

"Well you better get some help and stay after tomorrow. The actors need it for dress rehearsals. And you need to work faster, Brooks." 

"Sure, um. No problem." she brushes me away and I scurry back to my job on the other side of the stage. My brush finds it's way between my fingers once again and I put my ear buds in, escaping from the loud drills and pesky power saws.

I make the mistake of looking over at the shop, and curse in my mind. Owen's cleaning up, and once I have my eyes set on him I can't seem to look away. Look at the way he's stacking up the wood, like he's some type of macho man. Obviously trying to impress me. He's completely clueless that he's overrated in my mind. And his jeans are way too tight. Like, really tight. You know, he's not as hot as he thinks he is with sweat dripping down his forehead. And his neck. And his chest. And- stop it.
... News flash, Owen. We're history.  

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