Scared of Beautiful (Scared #1)(6)
“Shit!” Jade’s hand flies to cover her mouth. “Jackson. I told him I’d hang with him tonight.” She reaches for her cell and dials using a single speed dial button.
Yup, she’s definitely into him. Two attempts later, she tosses her phone over her shoulder. “Voicemail. Ooh I know! You’re home tonight right?” She rattles the sentence off in a matter of milliseconds.
I’m slightly miffed that she assumes I have no social life, and tragically depressed by the fact that she’s probably right. “What, what do you want?”
I’m always skeptical about Jade’s bright ideas. She convinced me to ride the orientation party bus at the beginning of the year, and I wore her puke for half the night and held her head over the toilet for the remaining half. Suffice it to say I’m not a fan.
“Amuse him for me for tonight? Please? You won’t regret it I swear it to you. Please? Go to the Bean, hang out here, do whatever,” she pleads, batting her eyelids with feigned innocence.
On the basis that her begging is nothing short of pathetic, I look toward the window, roll my eyes, let out an exasperated sigh and turn back nodding. “Fine.” I pull the door behind me with the pretense of irritation, but try as I might, as I make my way down to the shower, I can’t wipe the stupid grin off my face.
I don’t mention the awkward library incident that happened not but an hour ago to Jade. I agree to occupy Jackson because it’s a no-brainer. After I ran out on him, there’s no way he has any intention or desire to hang out with me for the night. Easy. He’ll come to the door, I’ll tell him Jade had to go out and he’ll turn on his heel and go somewhere other than here. Still, with no explanation why, I grab my razor and tweezers off the chest of drawers and shove my coconut and lime body butter into my shower caddy. Rejection is best served with sweetly scented skin and the absence of stubble on one’s thighs.
An hour later, clean shaven and soapy shower fresh, I sit on my bed nervously twirling locks of my hair between my fingers. I’m wearing pajamas, the final part of my plan to ensure that I don’t give Jackson the option to ask me to go anywhere. Jade left fifteen minutes ago, wearing a band aid that doubles as a dress. Lucky guy. He won’t even need full function of his arms to get her out of that tonight. A sharp, short single knock on the door distracts me from my thoughts. I wring my hands together, another nervous habit, as I make my way to what feels a lot like my impending doom.
Jackson’s eyes meet mine as I open the door. It’s obvious that he’s surprised to see me, although I can’t imagine why, since I live here. “Hey!” I try to sound as nonchalant as possible, but I notice my voice is still an octave or two higher than normal.
“Hi,” he answers casually, and if I didn’t know better, I’d say he was trying to hold back a smile. His brows pull together when he sees that the room is minus Jade.
“Something came up. Jade had to go,” I offer in explanation.
“Right,” he scoffs, “you mean someone came up, don’t you?”
I smile back at him; at least he understands the paradox that is Jade as well as I. The fact is that she is obsessive compulsive about cleanliness, but doesn’t share the same obsession with punctuality or follow-through. “It’s cool if you still wanna hang out here for a while though,” I respond with a much keener demeanor than I had intended.
He looks unsure about what to say at this point, and I can imagine that he’s trying to rationalize whether I’m just being polite by asking, or whether I genuinely would like him to stay for a while. “If you’re not busy,” he replies, very cautiously.
Are you kidding me? He seriously wants to stay after my weirdness this afternoon! I roll my eyes and sigh, calling on my best ‘whatever’ expression. “Yes, because often when I have somewhere to be, I go in my pajamas.”
He feigns confusion. “Do you really? Well, that’s just odd.” His cocky grin just gets on my damn nerves. I sidestep him and he ambles over to Jade’s bed, collapsing with porn star precision onto his propped up elbow. The bed creaks in protest.
I sit cross-legged on my own bed facing him. He’s looking, no, staring straight at me, saying nothing. “What!” I finally ask, irritated.
“Just trying to figure out what you New Yorkers feel constitutes hanging out. Where I’m from it generally involves more talk, less silence. Oh, and the person you’re hanging with normally looks as though she actually wants to be there,” he answers sarcastically, which pisses me off.
I open my mouth to unleash my own sarcastic rebuttal, but my phone buzzes on my bed, distracting me. At the same time, an envelope appears under my door. My father’s familiar company seal glares at me from the expensive white paper. As is the case every month, a check replaces the phone calls and encouraging words that other students receive from their parents. I walk over, pick it up, and fling it into my bedside drawer. I situate myself back on the bed and give Jackson a quick once over.
If he looked tasty in a white V-neck tee and jeans, he looks absolutely edible in a light mint green dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up and dark blue jeans. His hi-tops look so clean and white, they’re almost blinding.
“So, how about a game of twenty questions?” I suggest.
“Really?” he asks incredulously. “I haven’t played games like that since high school.”