Page 11 of Just Don't Call Me Yours

He nods. “Yeah.” His hand cups the back of his neck as he stares down at the floor of our room, and I cock an eyebrow as I wait for him to say more.

Before he has time to elaborate, movement in the hallway catches my attention. Margot comes into view, stopping when she sees us.

“Hey, Matt.” She smiles while she searches for the keys in her bag, and like this, she’s unsuspecting. She’s cute, friendly, and has an ass I have to consciously remind myself not to stare at.

Matt gives her a nod, but even she can’t pull him out of his funk.

Sitting on the edge of my bed, I rest my elbows on my knees and look over at her. “You know, I’m here, too,” I say, just to poke her.

She finds her keys. “Oh, I know.” Turning her back, she unlocks her door and says over her shoulder, “It’s a disappointment I’m faced with every day.”

I cock an eyebrow. “Every day? Are you hung up on me, Red?”

She scoffs but says nothing before going into her room, leaving the door open.

“I just need to finish my assignment for Bio and then we can go.”

“Yeah.” Leaning to the side, I look into Margot’s room. She puts her hair up in a bun on her head before taking a seat at her desk and getting out her laptop. “That works because I have to finish my paper.”

He nods and gets to work, but as soon as I grab my laptop and look down at the screen in front of me, a distinct voice fills the air. I don’t know the name of the song, and I don’t have to. It sounds like all of Fleetwood Mac’s other music. Stevie’s voice is unfortunately unmistakable.

“Let it go,” Matt says in a warning tone.

“Who said I was going to do anything?”

Without looking up from his computer, he shrugs.

Glaring back at my unfinished English paper, I try to focus. It’s due tomorrow, and I started it about twenty minutes ago, so the five sentences on the screen aren’t giving me much to work with. Plus, the professor has made it clear she has a thing about thesis statements, so if I can’t get at least that right, there’s a good chance I’m fucked.

The song ends, and “Landslide”—a song I do know—comes on next.

I groan.

“Let. It. Go.” This time, Matt looks at me, holding my stare like he needs some type of confirmation I’ve heard him.

I shake my head and blow out a breath.

Matt’s low laughter at least gives me a sense of normalcy, and I manage to put down another sentence during the song.

I’ve spent the better part of five minutes trying to figure out how many more sentences I’ll need to finish this paper until “Landslide” plays again.

I lean forward to get a better view. She’s still at her desk, quietly singing along as she gently bobs her head and types away like she doesn’t have a care in the world. She’s probably the type of person who has had her English paper done for at least a week, so I wonder what she’s writing. One of the girls on the floor said something about Margot having a blog, and I can only imagine the shit she complains about online.

Her head lifts, and we lock eyes. With a smile that’s way too sweet to be genuine, she waves before going back to whatever she’s working on. She’s doing this out of spite, but I’ll let her have her fun.

As long as I can have some fun, too.

I get to my feet and walk over to my stereo. Matt’s head snaps up. “What are you doing?”

I shrug. “I want to listen to something.” Without turning the volume up too loud, I let the Foo Fighters distract me from Stevie’s depressing lullaby next door.

Matt tsks disapprovingly. “She’s not going to like that.”

I sit back on my bed. “She’ll get over it.”

The blinking cursor on the screen taunts me, and I rub my hands over my face as I try to get back on track.

Think.

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