“Well, you don’t.” But my chest still tightens at the warmth from his body soaking through my clothes.
I make a quick scan of the people on the street around us, but no one has whipped out a camera or cell phone, so at least we don’t have to worry about any embarrassing shots showing up online tomorrow.
“We should get you home,” I say, steadying him.
“But I want to have fun.” He tries to pull away from me but almost falls. “Everyone thinks I’m a loser, so I might as well act like one!” he shouts.
People turn around, whispering to each other. A few cameras are pulled out, and an excited hum travels through the crowd gathering around us.
Sucking in a sharp breath through my teeth, I throw my arm around his waist and hold him upright. “Let’s get into the car.”
But when I turn around, the driver—and the car—is gone. I call him, but he doesn’t pick up. I’m stranded. With a drunk Jason. In the middle of a city of 2.5 million people who all know his face.
Swallowing my panic, I half carry, half shuffle him to the bus station, because that’s the only solution I can think of. He laughs in my ear the entire way there.
I dump him on the bench and ignore the staring and pointing from passersby. Relief floods me as our bus pulls up.
“Okay, let’s go,” I say.
He doesn’t stand.
“Don’t make this difficult,” I mutter. “I’m not carrying you.”
But I hoist him up from the bench anyway. He leans against me as we struggle onto the bus and shuffle to the back row. I sink into a seat beside him, shooting death glares at any passengers who dare to glance our way.
Jason leans his head back and closes his eyes. “Grace?”
“What?” I snap.
“Why are you here?”
“Because I’m going to school here.”
“No, not in Korea.” He jerks a finger between us, motioning at himself, then me. “Here. You told me you didn’t want anything to do with me.”
That’s a good point. Why do I even care? I steal a glance at him, at the uninhibited dependency, and my heart constricts. He needs someone. Everyone thinks he’ll be fine with the band’s breakup, but it seems like he’s the one suffering. And if Sophie isn’t going to make sure he doesn’t self-destruct, someone needs to.
But, beneath that, there’s something I can’t explain. Some instinct to be close to him, no matter how. Something deeper than my appreciation for the way his V-necks show off his collarbones and how his rare smiles light up his face. Something I’m not sure I’m ready to investigate.
We make it to our stop and somehow we manage to get back to campus without a fan mob descending on us. I should get a medal for this good deed.
“Get your key out,” I tell him when we’re at his building.
“Huh?” He hiccups.
“Your key.”
He stuffs a hand into his pocket, then tries the other three. His features twist into a puzzled expression. “I don’t … I don’t have it.”
“What?”
“I guess I uhh…” He laughs. “I guess I left it in my room.” He pats his pants like the key will miraculously appear in one of his empty pockets.
“I can’t believe this,” I mutter.
He deserves to sleep on the street tonight, but I can’t leave him out here. Should I go ask his RA to unlock the door? But the RA could take a picture of Jason or tell some gossip magazine about it, despite the ban on communication with the press. Jason’s reputation would just get worse.
After a minute’s deliberation, I make a quick decision, fighting the blush creeping up my neck. “Okay, come on. You’re coming to my room.”
He doesn’t respond, just follows me. Sophie’s visiting one of her friends from her old school who came down from Seoul, and they’re spending the night in a hotel. Convenient. Maybe God is smiling on me.
I glance at Jason as he stumbles over a crack in the pavement. Okay, maybe he isn’t.
When I get us to my room, it’s already past ten o’clock. Jason slumps into a chair and starts looking through the papers sitting on top of my desk, then digs through my drawers and picks up a photo I stuffed in there when I moved in.
“Who’s this?” He points to Nathan, who has his arm slung across my shoulders.
Panic jolts through me, and I snatch the picture from his hand, shrieking, “What are you doing? You can’t just look through people’s stuff!”
His face falls, and he looks so contrite I almost forgive him. “Sorry,” he says.
I blow out a slow breath. “It’s fine. Just stop acting like a kid I need to babysit.”
I search through my drawers for something modest but cute I can wear to sleep in. I am not putting on my dad’s old ratty T-shirt that I stole. When I come out of the bathroom in yoga pants and a tank top, I find Jason curled up on his side on my bed, snoring lightly, his shoes still on.
“You’ve got to be kidding.” I just stare at him, frustration mingling with the butterflies swirling in my stomach.
Muttering a few choice words, I yank off his sneakers and toss them onto the floor. I nudge him, but he’s out. I consider rolling him onto the floor, where he can spend the rest of the night, but my hospitable Southern upbringing kicks in and I can’t go through with it. Instead, I climb up onto Sophie’s bed and crawl between the sheets.
We’re alone in my room, and Jason is sleeping in my bed, and I may want to strangle him for getting wasted—but my pulse leaps every time I remember the way he leaned against me as we walked to the bus station, how his breath warmed my neck, and how I could still smell his cologne underneath the stink of stale alcohol.
I shut down those thoughts, refusing to let my mind linger on them, and instead fall asleep listening to Jason’s breathing, worrying that he has alcohol poisoning. But I wake up only a few hours later to the sound of him banging the bathroom door open. I sit up, blinking back sleep, just in time to hear him puke his guts out. I sit there a second, not sure if I’m awake or still dreaming.
KPOP superstar Jason Bae is throwing up in my bathroom.