With football, we’re in it together. And I’m still mostly on the bench. This team shit is a no-brainer. I’ll be cruising through the season with no pressure on me, I’m sure of it.
Eli goes in search of Tony, leaving me alone with Diego. I used to hate this guy. Mostly everyone did. But he’s mellowed out, especially this last year. Plus, he’s really fucking happy living with his girlfriend and their baby.
“Who’s the guy with Ellie?” Diego asks me.
“Oh, that kid?” I glance over my shoulder to see they’re still talking. Shit. At least she’s not touching him any longer. “They have a couple of classes with each other. His name is Carson.”
Diego watches them for a moment before his gaze shifts to me. “I always figured you two would end up together.”
“Nah.” I shake my head. “She’s not my type.”
He laughs. “I thought anyone in our age group with a vagina was your type.”
“Why you gotta use technical terms?” I grimace, and Diego laughs harder. “Ellie is cool. She’s a good girl. Nice. Sweet. If we were to do anything though, I’d break her heart. And I can’t do that. I don’t want that responsibility.”
Meaning, I’m not prepared for that responsibility.
“I get it,” Diego says with a nod. “That guy can’t stop staring at her.”
If Diego is trying to make me jealous, he’s succeeding. “I mean, look at her,” I say, my voice nonchalant. “She’s got a lot on display tonight.”
“She looks good,” Diego says casually, taking a swig of the beer he’s holding. “Older.”
Unable to help myself, I glance over my shoulder, once again, just in time to catch her throw her head back and laugh. My heart trips over itself as I watch her, and I wonder what that asshole said. I wonder if I could ever make her laugh like that. Or maybe I just ruined everything and we won’t even be friends again.
I turn my attention back to Diego, annoyed with my thoughts. With myself. “There are a lot of girls here tonight,” I say, desperate to change the subject.
“Any of them interest you?” Diego asks.
I scan the room, yet not a single female face leaps out at me. I can only think of Ellie. Laughing with the guy like she used to laugh with me. I curl my hands into fists. “All of them.”
Diego laughs. Slaps my shoulder. “I can only imagine the stories you have from your tour.”
“I have some good ones,” I agree. “Got about two hours so I can go into vivid detail?”
“Since I won’t ever be living the rock star life, guess I’ll have to live through you instead,” Diego says, shaking his head.
I wouldn’t want to have his life, though he seems perfectly content. He’s not even twenty and he’s already a daddy. That’s some crazy shit. I don’t know if I even want to be a father, have a wife, the traditional life.
That sounds so fucking boring.
Or more like fucking scary.
I don’t know what I want, and I feel like my mind changes on the daily. I’m only nineteen, for fuck’s sake. I have options still.
Plenty of options. I could tour again. Rent out a studio and create my own album. Produce it. Make it all mine. Or I could cave and accept a record deal. But then I wouldn’t be able to make music on my terms. And right now, that’s the most important thing to me.
My gaze goes to Ellie one more time like I can’t help myself and she’s smiling. Beautiful. The prettiest I’ve ever seen her.
An idea forms in my head, and I shove it away. But it keeps coming. In a string of words. Lyrics.
Pulling my phone out, I start typing in my notes, getting the words down before I forget. But soon, it’s as if I forget everything happening around me, and I’m lost in the song. The melody. Imagining the chords. The chorus. The entire song.
For Ellie.
Ten
Ellie
Jackson: I wrote a new song.
That’s what I wake up to. A text from Jackson on Sunday morning. It’s almost nine, which is irritating because I’d wanted to sleep in, but my internal clock didn’t let me.
I check when Jackson sent the text. 7:48 a.m.
What the hell? He had a game last night too. Not that he played. I went with the girls to watch and Jackson didn’t step foot on that field once. I was disappointed. He’s so much fun to watch play, both music and football, but the coaches don’t seem to ever give him a chance. They keep this up, and he’ll eventually quit.
Music has to be calling his name. He can make money from that. Big money. Football? I don’t see him going pro. Not even close. Not that he’s bad—he just never plays.
A sigh leaves me. I’m still mad at him over how he acted at the party Friday night, interrupting my conversation with Carson. Jerk. He acted faintly territorial over me, though I don’t think Carson even noticed.
We’re going to the movies tomorrow night, Carson and me. My one night off this week, since I’m working so much. I’m excited.
Me: What’s it called?
The gray bubble pops up, telling me he’s responding, and I’m shocked. Why is he up so early?
Jackson: Prettiest I’ve Ever Seen You.
Me: Sounds romantic.
Jackson: It’s a little dirty.
Me: Really? Is it about one of your hookups over the summer?
Ugh. I don’t want to know. But I say that because we both know hookups happened. I need to acknowledge them, cling to them, so I can remember why I’m not interested in Jackson any longer.
Because he’s never really been interested in me. He gets with other girls all the time. While I’m sitting at home, waiting for him. It’s pitiful.
Pathetic.
I refuse to be that girl. Not anymore.
Jackson: No. It’s about a mythical girl.
Me: Mythical?
Jackson: Unattainable.
Me: A figment of your imagination then?
Jackson: What do you mean by that?
Me: You can have pretty much whatever girl you want, J. Quite a few guys too if you were interested.
Jackson: Not everyone wants me, Ellie.
Oh please. They all want him. I saw the way the girls flocked to him as the party went on Friday night. At one point, before Tony kicked everyone out, I think they were about eight deep, watching Jackson with adoring eyes as he told a story. I sort of wished I could have gone over there and listened to the story too, but Hayden put a stop to that.
“No way,” she said, shaking her head. “Let him come to you.”
Of course, after our initial conversation, he didn’t speak to me for the rest of the night.
Jerk.
Me: What are you doing up so early on a Sunday morning?
Jackson: Couldn’t sleep. Was too excited about the song. Wanna hear it?
Me: You’ve already recorded it?
Jackson: No, but I can play it for you on FaceTime.
He’s played songs for me before on FaceTime, and like the sap I am, I listened to them, praising the lyrics, the melody, the whatever when he finished. Like the good little fangirl I used to be.
This time, I don’t respond. No, I don’t want to hear it. I’m sure it’s amazing and I’ll get all dreamy-eyed watching him play his guitar while listening to his voice, because he’s addictive. I can’t lie. I also can’t turn my feelings off for him that fast, though I wish I could.
My phone starts to buzz, saying I have a FaceTime call from Jackson. Like I can’t help myself, I take the call, and his face appears. He smiles.
“Good morning,” he says cheerfully, looking sexy as ever in a white tank, his hair an artful mess, his jaw and cheeks covered in stubble. I want to feel those cheeks press against my face. My stomach. The inside of my thighs.
Oh holy shit, I just went there. Why do I always go there with him?
“Morning.” I wish I could tug my comforter over my head. I’m sure I look a mess. Oh, and I’m just wearing a tank top too. No bra. Skimpy panties that I would never dare s
how him. It gets hot in this stupid, stuffy apartment that I share with roommates who are basically strangers, and I barely want to wear clothes when I sleep. At least I’m living in student housing with reasonable rent that I can pay myself, thanks to my job and student grants. Otherwise, my parents were probably going to make me stay at home and commute to school.
“Ready to listen?” He fumbles around with his phone, setting it on top of some furniture and giving me a better view of his bedroom. Of him. He’s wearing gray sweats, his feet bare, and he’s all rumpled and pretty and annoying. He’s sitting in a chair with the guitar in his lap, strumming it.
“Sure,” I say weakly, bracing myself.
Don’t fall for it. Don’t fall for him. Don’t fall for it. Don’t fall for him.
“Okay. It still needs some work.” He hums, and the sound smacks me right in the chest before dropping, settling between my legs.
Oh my God, I am ridiculous.
In a crowded room, you won’t look my way
All I can do is stare
I’m captivated, lost in your eyes
Thinking about your secrets
What’s between those pretty thighs
And wishing you weren’t so far away
My skin grows warm and I laugh a little when his fingers fumble over the strings. He sends me a look. “Still needs a bit of work.”
“Yeah,” I say faintly, thinking of how he kept staring at me Friday night. How he told me I looked good.
No. This isn’t about me. I’m sure I’m reading too much into this, as usual.
You’re a goddess
A woman divine
A siren
And now we’re entwined
Together
Wrapped up in my arms
Lost to your lips
Lost in your charms
I fill you and you cry out my name
It’s so fucking good
Life will never be the same
“This is the chorus.”
The prettiest I’ve ever seen you
Wishing you were with me
The prettiest I’ve ever seen you
Wishing I was the only one you see
“That wasn’t too dirty,” I tell him when he finishes.
“Oh, there’s more. I’m just not sharing it with you yet.” He frowns.
“Why not?”
“Still needs some work.” He sets the guitar to the side, leaning it against his bed. “What did you think?”
“It was—good,” I say.
His frown deepens. “Good? That’s it?”
“It was great,” I say softly. “I wish I knew who you were singing about.”
His gaze never strays from mine as he says, “That one girl who is completely unattainable.”
I wonder what this girl looks like. Who she is. He may say she’s made up, but I don’t know. I get the sense that she’s real, and I sort of hate her. Even though I don’t know her.
“We all want that one person we can’t have, right?” he asks when I still haven’t said anything.
“Yes,” I agree as I stare at his pretty face with longing. “We do.”
I enter the coffeeshop with my laptop in tow, ready to order my favorite drink—an iced white chocolate mocha with lavender and vanilla infused milk. The lavender, at first, made me avoid the drink, and I always ordered something else. Eventually, though, I gave in.
And never looked back.
The coffee shop is local. Beautifully decorated, with a massive dark gray wall and gorgeous, vibrant pink and white flowers painted on it. Music plays softly in the background and there are a lot of people sitting at the tables scattered about. It’s a popular place, one I only just discovered when I moved here.
I order my drink and head for the pickup counter, nearly running into someone on my way.
“I’m so sorry,” I say, glancing up to find Carson smiling down at me.
“We keep doing this,” he says, his voice light. Teasing.
I laugh. “Yeah, we do. Are we both klutzes?”
“Probably. I know I am.” The smile never leaves his face. “I’m glad I ran into you. Again.”
“Me too. Though I’m really here to do homework.” I pat my laptop bag. “What about you?”
“I was just stopping by for a drink real quick.” He hesitates for only a moment. “Mind if I join you?”
“Yes. You should.” I like Carson. Talking to him helps me forget about Jackson.
We get our drinks and find a table, right up against the wall of windows that are at the front of the building. We discuss what we like to drink here, and how much he hates the lavender drink, which I get since it’s an acquired taste.
“What are you up to today?” I ask, once we’re finished squabbling over superior coffee drinks.
“I was just at my parents’ house,” he says. “They live not too far from here.”
It’s a nicer part of town. Lots of older, larger houses in quiet, tree-filled subdivisions. “I love the neighborhoods around here. Do you get along with your parents?”
“Oh yeah. They’re all right. My dad can be tough sometimes. He has all of these expectations,” he says, rolling his eyes.
“I get that,” I say, smiling at him.
“What about yours?” he asks.
“They’re very supportive, but they don’t have a lot of money, so I had to really work to convince them I wanted to go to Fresno State. They’d rather I go to community college first, which I totally get, but I wanted the campus-life experience, you know? So I worked hard, maintained a solid grade point average, got into Fresno State, won some grants and community scholarships, and now here I am,” I explain.
“You’re the type who doesn’t hesitate to go after what you want, huh?” he says, his gaze full of admiration.
I would never, ever describe myself like that but when he puts it that way…
“Yeah. I guess you’re right,” I say softly, my mind turning his words over and over again.
“Are you from around here?” he asks.
“I grew up in the foothills above Fresno,” I say. “Close to Yosemite.”
“Nice. It’s beautiful up there,” he says, nodding. “We went up to Yosemite a lot when I was younger. My parents like to hike and camp.”
“The park is amazing,” I agree. “But we rarely visited. When it’s in your back yard, you let the tourists have it. At least, that’s what my parents always said.”
He chuckles. “Figures. When I was little, I wanted to live there.”
“Ugh, no you didn’t,” I tease, making him grin.
“Do you have brothers or sisters?” he asks.
“I have two sisters. They’re a lot older than me. They already have kids and stuff,” I answer, taking a sip of my drink.
“Why such an age difference? Were you an oops baby?” He grimaces. “Maybe I shouldn’t have put it like that. Or maybe that was too intrusive of a question?”
“No, not at all. It’s fine.” I don’t want him to be afraid to ask me questions. I’m a freaking open book. “My mom was previously married. They got a divorce, and she met my dad. They got married and I was born less than a year later. So it’s basically like I’m an only child. I love my sisters, but we’re not very close.”
“It’s hard when you don’t grow up together,” he says.
“It is,” I agree. “What about you?”
“I have an older brother and a younger sister. I’m the middle child.”
“Do you have middle child syndrome?”
“Nah, I don’t think I do. But isn’t that half the problem with a middle child? They’re not aware they have a problem?” We both laugh. “My parents are cool. Sometimes Dad comes down harder on us guys. I’m not what he wanted.”
“And what did he want?”
“A jock, like him. Someone who always has a ball in his hands. Football, baseball, basketball, it didn’t matter. My brother is exactly like him. Really good at sports. Broke a couple of reco
rds when he was on the varsity baseball team at our high school,” Carson explains. “My dad tried with me, but I’m totally uncoordinated. And I kind of don’t care, you know? I’m not into it.”
“Yet I bet you played sports for years,” I say.
His smile is bashful. “I did, but I was never very good at any of them. I finally put my foot down right before I started high school. Besides, I probably would’ve been cut from the teams.”
“They cut players on the teams at your high school?”
He sends me an incredulous look. “Well, yeah.”
“Our high school was so small, they practically had to beg people to join teams. Sometimes we wouldn’t even have a JV team.” I frown. “Except for volleyball. We had four teams one year. Varsity, JV, fresh and frosh.”
“That’s crazy.”
“I know.”
“Did you ever play volleyball?”
“Only when I was forced to in P.E.” I wrinkle my nose. “I’m not very good at sports either.”
“What are you good at, Ellie?”
“I’m an excellent organizer.” When he starts to laugh, I protest. “Hey, that’s a solid life skill.”
“It is, I’m not disagreeing.”
“I was in leadership all four years in high school,” I say. “I was senior class vice president.”
“That’s awesome,” he says. “I was president of the video game club my senior year.”
I burst out laughing. I can’t help it. “Tell me you don’t play Call of Duty.”
“If I did, that would be a lie.” He laughs too before grabbing his drink and sucking most of it down. “I should probably go. I need to get back to campus. I have to meet my study group at three.”
“I’m glad we got to hang out for a little while,” I say with a shy smile.
The Sophomore Page 8