Page 65 of Just Don't Call Me Yours

“You,” I say, pointing a finger at him. “Stop.”

His mouth quirks from being scolded, but he looks back at his guitar and picks up the melody where he left off.

“And you,” I say, finally bringing my attention back to Keith standing in front of me. “We have nothing to talk about. I’m sorry, but I don’t see you as anything more than a friend.”

“I’m sorry for what I said in some of those texts,” Keith blurts, kneeling in front of me. You’d think this conversation would be a little less awkward now that he’s not towering over me, but the way he’s crouching in front of me makes it so much worse.

Jackson’s playing slows, so even though I don’t look away from Keith, I know he’s watching our exchange.

“It’s fine,” I say, even though it isn’t. “But maybe we should stop hanging out for a little while.”

“My texts were out of line. I just thought you were ignoring me,” he says, his eyes pleading.

I want to melt into the floor. I want to disappear. I want to evaporate into thin air. Anything to get me out of this conversation and anything to get away from him.

I look to Jackson for help again, but he seems content watching this interaction unfold.

Keith pulls my attention back to him when he says, “We can just talk in your room or something. We don’t have to go to dinner.”

Shaking my head, I squeeze my eyes shut. “No, Keith. I’m sorry, but . . . no.”

His mouth presses into a hard line. “Okay, fine.” He stands and walks backward toward the common room door but hesitates. “So, I guess just text me later?”

I give him a tight smile, and he nods, seeming to take the hint. I have no intention of texting him later. After seeing how much he was affected by this, I have no plan of reaching out to him at all. It’s not fair to him. Turning on his heels, Keith finally leaves, and as soon as he’s gone, I’m acutely aware of the fact that Jackson and I are alone again. Taking a deep breath, I finally look at him, expecting him to gloat. This is what he’s always wanted—for me to tell Keith it’s never going to happen. It made me feel terrible, and it was awkward and uncomfortable, but I have to admit, I can breathe a little easier now.

He doesn’t make fun of me, though.

He just stares after Keith with a furrowed brow before saying, “I’ll never understand why you’re so afraid to hurt that guy’s feelings.” He looks at me. “You’re never worried about hurting mine.”

I let out a breath of laughter as my head falls back against the couch. “That’s because you can handle it.”

42

jackson

Sitting in Dave’s garage and practicing with the guys is what I’ve always wanted, but ever since I kissed her, it’s like I can’t wait to get back to my dorm and maybe catch a glimpse of Margot before she goes to bed.

It’s only happened twice this week. Twice she’s been awake when I got back. Twice I saw her, in her leggings and oversized T-shirt. Twice we locked eyes for longer than we should have, and twice I was left wondering what she’s thinking as I tried to fall asleep at night.

It’s bullshit.

But God, do I want her.

I want to make her laugh.

I want to make her mad.

I want to fuck her like I hate her.

And I want to make love to her like she’s the greatest thing to ever happen to me.

Dave looks over his shoulder at me, and my fingers fumble with the strings. Based on the way he’s staring me down, it’s not the first time I’ve fucked up during practice today.

He holds up a hand to stop us. “Let’s take it from the top.”

I look over at Marty only to be met with wide eyes silently asking me what the hell is wrong with me. I shake out my hand and nod to Dave to count us down again. We’re practicing one of our newer songs, but I know it. I’ve been practicing it for the past few days on repeat to make sure I wouldn’t do shit like this when the band got together.

The opening riff is trickier than most of our other songs, but I was nailing it last night. Dave kicks off the song again, and I focus on every chord. As much as I try to get it right, my hands betray me, making the riff come out sloppy and loose.

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