“For you to get better,” I say, ignoring the nervousness growing inside me.
“Get better? What’s wrong with me?”
“I don’t know. You tell me.”
He stares at me in confusion. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I sigh. “Jason, let’s be real here. You’re depressed. I’m assuming it’s because of what happened with the band, but if I had to guess, I would say it started before that. Am I right?”
He bristles, frowning. “This isn’t—”
“Don’t deny it. I know the signs. Trust me.”
Though he doesn’t argue, he scowls at me. But I take his silence as a sign to keep going. I’m not an expert, but I know enough to realize he needs help. Maybe not counselor-type help, but at least someone to show him they care. And, apparently, I’m the only one lining up.
“If you’re having a hard time, you need to ask for help,” I say. “Whatever’s going on, you need to talk to somebody about it. And do other things that make you happy. You can’t wallow in your problems.”
“I’m not wallowing!” he cries, then winces and lowers his voice. “This is ridiculous.”
“Is it? Then why are you going out and getting wasted? Why are you missing school? Why don’t you ever hang out with your friends anymore?”
“Because my friends won’t talk to me,” he snaps.
“Obviously, one of them still talks to you.”
He scoffs, but I can see the fight seeping out of him. He gazes out the big window that faces the street, a wistful look in his eyes.
“Sophie’s never been mad at me,” he says. “Not like this.” His voice falls to a whisper. “I can’t lose her, Grace.”
I nod, my chest tightening. I would kill to hear Nathan say that about me.
“You’re hurting,” I say, fighting the urge to take Jason’s hand, which rests on top of the table. “Whatever you’re going through, I want to help. Just let me.”
“Why do you care?” he asks, not a challenge—genuine curiosity. “I thought you were mad at me.”
I bark a laugh. “I still am. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to ignore a friend who’s in trouble.”
This silences him. His eyes soften, and it takes all my self-control not to tell him that I forgive everything and to beg him to tell me he likes me. That maybe I could deal with his issues if he would kiss me again.
I clear my throat to get rid of the words that threaten to spill from my mouth. “You may not be ready to talk to me about whatever’s going on, and that’s okay. Maybe you’ll never be ready. But I’m not leaving you alone until I’ve decided that you’re better, okay?”
He nods, forcing his face into a look of mock seriousness. “Yes, ma’am,” he says with an egregious fake Southern accent.
I wrinkle my nose. “That offends not only me but also every Southerner who’s ever lived.”
He laughs, flashing me a grin that sends a jolt of longing through my chest.
I shoot out my hand. “Let’s shake on it—from now on, you’re on the happy road to recovery.”
He takes my hand and holds it a second too long. He stares at me with an unreadable expression that brings a hot blush to my cheeks, which I attempt to hide behind my coffee mug. I chug down the rest while my face resumes its normal coloring.
I drop Jason off at his dorm a couple hours later, and I find Sophie in our room. She’s eerily quiet as I flip through my notebook looking for the page I wrote my homework on.
“You shouldn’t be hanging out with him, you know,” she says, breaking the tense silence.
“Who?”
“Jason. Obviously.”
“Sophie.” I search for the right words, to keep myself from sounding judgmental, but not letting her off the hook, either. “Give him a break. He’s taking it a lot harder than you think.”
She scoffs, but I can see the uneasiness in her eyes. “Whatever. But you’re the one who’s having to pay for being the Good Samaritan.”
“What do you mean, I’m paying for it?”
She holds up her phone, which has a Web browser pulled up. “Have you not seen this?”
I take her phone and see my face splattered across the screen. In a Korean tabloid. I can’t read the article, but I would guess it has something to do with paparazzi spotting me and Jason together last night. Thankfully, in the photo, you can’t tell he’s trashed. It just looks like we’re canoodling on the bus.
I cringe. “It’s not what it looks like.”
“It doesn’t matter what actually happened, just what everyone sees.” She clears her throat uneasily. “Do you … do you like him?”
My eyes widen. “What? Sophie, I—”
She shakes her head, forcing a smile. “Forget it. Silly question. But, Grace.” She shoots me a pitying look. “If you’re going to hang around him right now, you’re going to get pulled into the press. You need to decide whether or not he’s worth it.”
I look down at the picture again, wondering how long it will take for reporters to dig around enough to discover who I really am and who my family is. It wouldn’t be hard to put it together, that Nathan’s my brother.
My first instinct is to shy away from this type of exposure. But I stare at the image, at Jason, at the guy who’s a lot more talented, a lot sweeter than he lets most people see. And I realize: He’s worth it.
He’s worth everything.
*
“When was the last time you actually wrote a song?” I ask.
Plucking at the strings on his guitar, Jason shrugs. “Probably not since we wrote the song for the drama.”
“Well, no wonder you’re depressed,” I say, sarcasm thick in my voice. “Your creativity is all bottled up. You’ve got to let it out.”
He chuckles, shifting on top of the bed closer to me. With both of our backs against the wall and our legs close enough to almost touch, I have to focus on our conversation and keeping my breathing level.
“So, my mother emailed me last night,” I say, surprise shooting through me that I would bring up the topic.
“Yeah? What did she say?”