Page 126 of Game Changer

“Exactly.”

Sex is awkward at best.

What I can deduce from my own meager experience, porn, and Serena’s war stories is that guys like to be teased, squeezed, popped until they burst all over you, at which point they’re basically deflated hot air balloons taking up the entire bed.

And don’t you tell them what you’re really fantasizing about is when it will be over and you can take a scalding-hot bath.

“My vibe has more empathy in its first two settings than the guys on campus,” I go on, and Serena cackles. “In fact,” I say, lifting my UPenn travel mug, “I mayneverhave sex again.”

“Noooo!”

Her protest has me laughing. “Plato said there are two things you should never be angry at: what you can help and what you can’t.”

“Yeah, well. White men who got to wear bed sheets to dinner said a lot of crazy shit.” Serena’s green eyes slice through me. “Besides. I’m not angry. I’m planning.” I raise a brow. “To find you a guy with a tongue that’ll turn you inside out.”

I shudder. “That’s sweet. Truly. But I didn’t come to school to get laid, Serena.” Her fake shocked face has me rolling my eyes. “I want to do something that matters.”

When I started college, my mom told me I was lucky to have been born now, and her daughter, because I’m free to be whatever I want. By that, she meant a famous painter or a rocket scientist, or straight or gay, an advocate for children or the environment.

It’s not enough.

Serena’s right. I’m obsessed with Jax Jamieson, but it’s not because of his hard body or the way he moves or even his voice.

It’s because Jax Jamiesonmatters.

He matters by opening his mouth, by lifting his guitar, by drawing breath. He matters by taking people’s hopes, their fears, and spinning poetry with them.

Every time I sit down and listen toAbandonon vinyl on the floor of my bedroom, a coffee in my hands and my eyes falling closed, it’s like he matters a little bit more.

If I ever meet Jax Jamieson, I’m going to ask him how he does it.

Before Serena can answer, my phone rings.

“Hello?”

“This is Wendy from Wicked Records. You got the internship.”

Disbelief echoes through me. I glance over my shoulder in case I’m on camera for some reality show. “But what about the other two hundred applicants?”

“Apparently their coffee making left something to be desired. Be here tomorrow at seven thirty.”

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