Page 25 of XO

“Well, you must be Mrs…?”

“Lynch, I’m Rosita Lynch.

“That’s easy to remember. Similar to my daughter. I’m Amanda Reign and this is Rosie.”

Mrs. Lynch nods in greeting and drapes an arm across her son’s shoulders, and I see him visibly relax. I note that while he’s close to his mom, my bond is with my father.

There’s a strange beat that falls between the adults. Mr. Lynch rubs his jaw while still eyeing my mother, and Mrs. Lynch appears visibly uncomfortable. She clears her throat, and this prompts my mother.

“My husband, he’s, ah… not feeling the best today, but I’m sure you’ll meet him very soon.” Changing pace, she places her hands on my shoulders, forcing me to take a step forward. “Rosie would love to give you a hand. We all know how full-on moving is.”

I turned to her in an instant unable to hide the fear in my eyes and my tone. “But, Mom! No, please,” I whisper, pleading with her not to do this. This is possibly the worst suggestion she could ever have made. “I’ve got homework to do. Please, don’t make me go.”

Mom looked at me as if I were some silly little girl purposefully being a nuisance. “Nonsense, Rosie,” she scolds. “Go, take in the pie and help Mrs. Lynch.”

Turning me around, she shoves me forward until I fall into step with my new neighbor. I pass Jacob, who rolls his eyes, before turning back to the U-Haul box. I follow his mother up the steps and into the kitchen, placing the apple pie on the counter which is covered in various stages of unpacked boxes.

“What would you like me to do?” I ask, timidly.

She smiles warmly, running a hand up and down my arm. Mrs. Lynch has a calmness about her which her husband lacks. “Why don’t you take some of these smaller boxes upstairs. First door on the right.

I nod and target the smaller boxes I know I won’t have any trouble carrying. Stacking the boxes against the far wall of the room, I look out the window and see that it faces directly across from mine. When the sheer white curtains blow in the breeze, I can see the tops of my pillows and the oil painting Dad brought back for me from Paris, which now sits framed above my bed. I make a mental note to close the heavy curtains.

With any luck, this room will be a rarely-used study.

“Decent view?” Jacob’s voice startles me from the door. I turn to face him, feeling suddenly embarrassed. When I don’t answer, he raises his eyebrows in question.

I shake my head in response and attempt to leave, but he blocks the doorway.

His eyes follow where mine once were. “Is that your room?”

I nod and loosely cross my arms because I don’t know what else to do. Jacob crosses the room and stares out the window before turning, leaning against the ledge, his own arms crossing. “You’re not like other girls, are you?”

What’s that supposed to mean?

He smiles at my frown.Why does he seem so much more mature than boys our age?If I didn’t know he was a freshman, I would place him as a junior.

I make to leave because being in his presence is both strangely familiar and terrifying. His hand wraps around my upper arm, and I’m stopped in my tracks. “Wait,” he says, and I avoid eye contact with him. “This yours?” He holds up my denim jacket I’d taken off downstairs but had carried up on top of a box. I grip the jacket, but he doesn’t release his hold. Instead, we both stand in the center of his room, in a silent standoff with a denim jacket that will signify the start of years of nonsense and torment. We’re the same age, but he’s a good foot taller than me, and when he peers down, a small smirk forming, I feel a shiver course over my skin.

“I’ll get you to react to me, Posie.”

“It’s Rosie!”

“Okay, Posie,” he says mockingly while celebrating his first win, no matter how trivial. “I’m not usually friends with girls like…” Jacob’s eyes travel the length of my body, “… you.” With his free hand, he raises my arm and grimaces. I see what he’s looking at, and I blame my mother for dragging me from the house without notice. Dark charcoal smudges run from my wrist up to my elbow. I’d been putting together a collection of sketches for entry into the local—anyway, it doesn’t matter. My love for art is only understood by my father. It’s then I notice the charcoal has also made its way onto my light pink shirt.Shit.It no doubt looks like I’ve been rolling down a chimney.

“You don’t need to show me around campus,” Jacob continues in a tone I find particularly hurtful. He makes it sounds like it was my idea, instead of me being coerced into it by my overcompensating mother. My cheeks redden, but that doesn’t stop him from morphing into an asshole right in front of me. “If you see me on the school bus, ignore me. If we happen to have the same classes, I’m just a stranger to you. And if our parents become friends, doesn’t mean it will be the same for us, and the rules still apply. We’re in very different leagues, you and me, and I would like it to stay that way.”

Different leagues?

I realize the heat I’m feeling flushing my cheeks isn’t from embarrassment, it’s rage.

“Different leagues? How obnoxious. What’s your massive ego overcompensating for?”

He throws a humored glance at his groin. “You can find out if your theory’s correct, but you probably wouldn’t know what to do with it.”

“Urgh, you’re disgusting!” I pull at the denim jacket we’re both still holding, but he doesn’t let go. “You don’t have to be such a dick,” I snap before immediately regretting my choice of words.

Jacob laughs relishing in my faux pas, and even when I desperately want to knee him in the balls, I’m thrown off my scent by the disarming smile that reaches his dark eyes.

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