Page 9 of Just Don't Call Me Yours

So, I guess one word can be friendly.

“Nice to meet you, Matt,” I say, genuinely pleasant.

I catch Jackson’s eyes drifting up to meet mine for a fraction of a second. The way he looks at me somehow makes me feel analyzed and judged. Every time he looks my way it’s like another string inside me snaps.

I fix my eyes on Matt. “Do you play guitar, too?”

Matt tilts his head, his eyes jumping from me to Jackson. I’m tempted to look at him again, but I can’t run the risk of being further unraveled. Matt’s hands stop mid-shuffle as he puts the pieces together. I have a feeling he knows I’m the one who knocked on his door last night. “Uh, no.” He clears his throat. “When it comes to music, I suck at just about everything—played lacrosse in high school, though.” He laughs. “Be glad it’s Jackson with the guitar.”

Despite my better judgment, I look over at Jackson. He casually leans back in his chair, eyeing me like the ball is in my court. I wish I could say his arrogance takes away from his appearance. That asshole smirk may be saying, Yeah, be glad, but it doesn’t take away from how perfect his stupid face is.

I’ve met guys like him—guys who think everything they touch is a gift to those around them. Jackson may be used to people fawning over him and his music, but I have no problem being the one to knock him down a peg.

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” I say thoughtfully with a twist of my lips. “Would you be up all night keeping everyone awake? Or do you have a shred of common decency?” I even have my hand raised with my thumb and forefinger pinched as I say shred, and I know I’ve gone too far.

But he has to know, right? He has to know his roommate is stupidly inconsiderate.

Matt’s wide eyes jump to Jackson before he lifts both hands in the air, signaling he wants nothing to do with this.

I can’t blame him.

Jackson sits up straight. Resting his elbows on the table across from me, he says, “Let it out, Red. What’s your problem?”

The silence that follows his question lets me know I have everyone’s attention. The rapt audience makes my pulse quicken, but I cross my arms. “Excuse me for not wanting to be lulled to sleep by the soothing melodies of ‘alternative rock.’” My fingers do air quotes as the genre leaves my lips.

He stares at my hands in the air. “What are you doing?” His eyebrows furrow. “Are you implying rock isn’t real music?”

This conversation has taken on a force of its own, and at this point, I feel like I’m no longer in the driver’s seat. I’m just along for the ride. Plus, he deserves it. “It’s noise.” I challenge with a lift of my brow. “And when it’s the same half-learned song over and over again at 2:00 a.m., it’s shitty noise.” Turning to Matt, I add, “Seriously, how do you sleep in the same room as him?”

Matt’s mouth opens, but he says nothing.

“Noise? Shitty noise?” Jackson says, bringing my attention back to him.

“Yeah,” I answer unapologetically.

“What about Nirvana? The Killers? Cage the Elephant? Shitty noise doesn’t shape the music industry.”

I just shrug. “It’s not my thing.”

“Oh, I love Nirvana,” Jess says, tossing her long, brunette hair over her shoulder and trying to ease the tension.

Jackson barely looks at her as he nods and says, “Of course, you do.” Then he gestures toward her with both hands. “Because that’s how you should react when you hear someone say Nirvana!”

The fact that he’s getting worked up about this somehow makes it easier for me to stay calm. “I just don’t see how jumping around and playing guitar as hard as you can is considered being a musician.”

He’s at a loss for words, and I have nothing left to say. We glare at each other across the table until Keith says with a nervous laugh, “So, this is going to be a fun year, yeah?”

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Izzy smiling, but it almost looks pained. She seemed like a nice girl, but I doubt she’ll want anything to do with me after this. My cheeks flush, and I wish I could disappear. I need to go back to my room.

I stand, but Jackson does, too. We both freeze. “I’m going back—” he starts to say as I mutter, “I should probably?—”

We stop.

Eventually, he lets out a sigh. “Whatever.” With a lift of his brow he says, “Can I walk back to my room? Or do you not want me to see where you live?”

I roll my eyes. “I don’t care what you do.” Turning to the rest of the table, my cheeks heat as I say, “Uh, I guess I’ll see you around.”

Everyone waves, but it’s the most uncomfortable goodbye I’ve ever experienced. This wasn’t exactly a great first impression.

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