Be with Me (Wait for You #2)(89)

No. I wasn’t okay. For a f*ck load of reasons. “Everyone is staring at me.”

She glanced around the room. A few students up front had been glancing over their shoulders from the moment I sat down. “No one is looking at you.”

I sent her a dry look, and she cringed. “Thanks for trying to make me feel better, but everyone is looking at me like I’m some kind of morbid fascination.”

Her eyes narrowed on the boys up front. Both hastily turned back away. “Ignore them,” she said. “And they’ll stop staring. Or you’ll stop caring. Trust me, I know.”

I nodded and put all my effort into ignoring the curious stares of classmates. One would think there’d be nothing exciting about what I had experienced, but it was like -people who rubbernecked when they came upon a crash scene.

“So how’s the delish Jase doing today?” she asked as we headed out of history, branching into another subject I wasn’t wanting to delve into.

“I don’t know,” I admitted, adjusting my grips on the crutches. I wanted to toss these mothaf*ckas into oncoming traffic. “He was kind of moody and silent today.”

She rolled her eyes. “So typical of boys. They accuse us of PMSing, but they have more mood swings than a pregnant woman.”

We made it to the connecting spot where the bus would take us to west campus. I glanced around the crowded corner. No one was paying attention to us and I probably shouldn’t say anything, but I needed to tell someone. I kept my voice low. “But we had sex last night.”

Her lips formed a perfect O.

“It was our first time,” I added, feeling my cheeks burn. “And before you ask, yes, it was great. It was freaking outstanding, but I woke up this morning and he was just sitting there on the bed. He left after that, saying he had something he needed to get from his house and when I saw him this morning, he barely spoke to me.”

She snapped her mouth shut. “Okay. Did you guys get into an argument or anything?”

“No. Nothing like that.”

“Maybe he really just had to go get something from his house and he’s just tired this morning. Or just plain moody,” she said after a few moments. “Either way, just ask him if he’s okay. That’s better than standing here stressing yourself out about it. You have enough to be worrying about.”

She was right, but there was nothing about her words that looked like she even convinced herself, and my stomach twisted even further. I just needed to ask him. And I would the first chance I had. I’d ask him if he was okay and he’d tell me everything was fine and I’d just feel stupid afterward for making a big deal out of nothing.

Jase’s mood hadn’t improved much when he arrived to music. He’d said hi to Calla, smiled at me, and then stared straight ahead, like he was engrossed in what our professor was droning on about. Which was such BS, because I didn’t think one person in the entire class had any idea what was going on.

And that smile of his—-it had been so tight and never reached his steely gaze. The smile was all wrong. It was fake. It reminded me of Dr. Morgan’s smile. It reminded me of the police officers’ as they’d ushered me out of their offices.

My palms were sweaty, causing the grip on my pen to slip. I’d scribbled maybe two or three lines during the entire class. After saying good--bye to Calla, I crutched my way to where Jase had parked. He’d taken my bag as usual, putting it on the floor by my feet to make it easier for me to grab.

Not seeing a familiar pink box, I bit down on my lip as I watched him make his way around the front of the Jeep. With the gray toboggan hat pulled low, only the ends of his hair peeked out from underneath it. He hoisted himself up, closing the door behind him. The hard set of his jaw caused my stomach to flop.

My mouth was dry as he backed out and hit the main road leading to east campus. Riddled with anxiety and uncertainty, I used the entire time while he searched for a parking spot near the Byrd Center to work up the nerve to speak.

Hands clasped tightly together, I swallowed hard. “Is everything okay?”

Jase turned off the engine and pulled the keys out. Sitting back, he lifted his free hand and smoothed it over the toboggan. My muscles seized up as the seconds ticked by in tense silence.

“No,” he said finally, voice so low I thought I heard him incorrectly. “Everything is not okay.”

I opened my mouth, but anything I was about to say died on the tip of my tongue when he looked at me. Oh, this was going to be bad. Very bad. I seized up, muscles rigid.

“I don’t know how to say this.” He pressed his lips together while a burn picked up in the back of my throat. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry for what?” I croaked out. Because he couldn’t be sorry for what happened between us. Absolutely no way.

He looked away, tilting his head to the side. “This is just too much.”

I blinked slowly, feeling like I missed the beginning half of this conversation. “What is?”

“This,” he stated with force, raising his hands. “All of this is too much—-you and me.”

My nails were leaving little indents in my palms from how tightly I was clenching my hands. “I . . . I don’t understand.” Those words sounded weak and pathetic to my own ears, and the blood drained from my face. “What’s going on?”