Page 5 of Just Don't Call Me Yours

He can’t be serious. I give him an incredulous look before shaking my head and facing forward again. I’ll just pretend he’s not here.

The professor, a middle-aged woman in a sleek pencil skirt, carries on about how much our final research paper will count toward our grade, but all I can think about is how many minutes are left until I can get away from this guy. I stopped taking notes as soon as he sat down, but I try to get back on track and make a new heading titled, Final Paper.

“Are you seriously taking notes on the syllabus?”

My entire body tenses at the sound of his hushed voice, and I do my best to ignore him.

“You know the syllabus is online, right?”

My grip tightens around my pen, and I pause. Glaring at him, I hiss, “Can you stop talking to me?”

“Anything I can help you two with?” A voice from the front of the room rings out, and I look up to find the professor staring at us, her eyes glazed over like she’s already sick of the bullshit.

The guy next to me goes to open his mouth, but I cut him off. “I’m sorry, professor. I’m trying to pay attention, but this guy won’t stop asking where I live.”

She lifts an eyebrow, her gaze shifting to my neighbor. Letting out a sigh, she says, “Young man, I’m going to have to ask that you don’t harass your classmate—or at least do it on your own time.” She looks back at me. “The number for campus security is on the last page.”

I sigh out a breath. “Thank you.”

A few heads turn, but I look down and start diligently writing in my bent notebook to avoid their stares. I can feel guitar-boy staring at me too, but I don’t want to look his way either. I’m relieved when he finally finds a pen and starts taking notes like he should have done since the start of class.

The professor lectures on the importance of participating in the online discussion boards, and I take notes accordingly. For the remainder of class, everything feels as it should.

Until he leans over and puts a folded note on my desk.

I stare at it, wishing it would disappear. The unwanted attention makes my heart pound. What sort of terrible thing did he write?

Looking over at him, I mouth, “Really?”

Without a sound, he mouths back, “Really.”

I stare at him a moment longer. He doesn’t look like a murderer, but then again, do murderers ever look like murderers? I don’t know this guy. Maybe I poked the wrong bear. Taking the note, I stuff it in my back pocket and get back to work. I’m not giving this asshole the satisfaction of seeing me react to whatever he wrote.

My cheeks stay hot for the last ten minutes of class until we’re finally dismissed, and I feel like I can breathe again. As I gather my things, I keep my head down. Even if we live in the same dorm, he’s the last person I want to walk with. Grabbing my bag, I put my notebook and pens away, and by the time I look up, he’s gone. My eyebrows pinch as I scan the classroom, but he must have left as soon as the professor finished her last word.

Typical.

Taking a deep breath, I head straight for the campus coffee shop on the way back to my dorm. My next class isn’t for a few hours, so I should have plenty of time to load myself up with caffeine and take a shower.

I’m standing in line, about to order my iced hazelnut latte, when I remember the note stuffed in my pocket. Looking around to make sure that guy is nowhere in sight, I pull out the crumpled paper. I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t Low blow, Red scrawled in sloppy handwriting. After humiliating him, I thought it would be worse—a lot worse.

I’m not even mad until my eyes fall to the PS at the bottom of the page.

Fleetwood Mac sucks.

That son of a bitch.

4

jackson

Thanks to Tampa traffic, the drive takes longer than it should. It doesn’t help that I had to walk across campus to get my car after class. Lucky for me, I find a parking spot right away when I finally get to Ybor City. Being late to class is one thing, but I’d never be late for an audition. It’s being held at some hole-in-the-wall bar I’ve never heard of. Growing up about two and a half hours away in Oviedo, this is all new territory.

I have eighteen minutes, but either the Florida heat or my nerves have me sweating as I step out of my Mazda. I don’t remember the last time something has meant this much to me, and with how much I want this, I feel like there’s a good chance I’ll fuck it up.

That’s why I’ve been practicing every hour of every day.

That’s why Matt has slept with earplugs ever since we got to campus.

---