We grab food from the dining hall because, after Jason’s drunken escapades, the press discovered where he’s going to school and are now camped out just off campus, waiting for their shot. I’d have thought this would’ve upset him, but whenever I mention the loss of his secret, he just shrugs.
When we return to his room fifteen minutes later, with our take-out fried food in hand, Jason’s happier than I’ve seen him in weeks. Maybe ever. There’s no hesitancy in his smiles, no sadness in his eyes. When he looks at me, I see no trace of the Jason I walked home from the Lotus Bar or the Jason who still grieves for the broken family his father split up. Just Jason, the boy with the colorful sneakers and dark eyes, the one I wish loved me back.
I dig under his comforter for the remote, then switch on the TV. Flipping through the channels, I spot a familiar face.
I drop the French fry in my hand. “Oh my gosh. That’s you!”
“What?” His face pales.
“You’re on TV!” I squeal, turning up the volume.
It’s the opening credits for a drama, and Jason’s face flashes on the screen. It shows him playing the guitar, holding hands with Na Na while she lies in a hospital bed, and running away from what looks like a mobster hit man.
“We have to watch this,” I say. “Why didn’t you tell me it was already airing?”
As the show continues, I realize it’s the first episode. I press buttons on the remote until English subtitles pop up on the bottom of the picture, and I can’t take my eyes off the screen. The story mostly follows Na Na, but we get a few scenes with Jason, the starving artist who plays guitar on the street to raise money for food.
Jason groans as the camera cuts to him playing a mopey song in a dark room—very emo. “Turn it off,” he says. “We don’t need to watch this.”
“What are you talking about? This is golden.”
He narrows his eyes. “You just want to make fun of me.”
“Of course I do!”
But that’s a lie. I actually want to see him sing the song we wrote. Our song.
He stretches for the remote, but I hold it out of his reach. “Grace, seriously. I don’t want to watch myself.”
“Well, we’re watching it, so get over it.”
With a huff, he reaches over me, but I keep it away from his hands. He leans farther and steadies himself with a hand on my thigh. I cry out when all his weight presses down into my leg, and he lunges for the remote, only to fall on top of me. Laughing, we both fall back onto the mattress, his chest pressed against mine and my arm stretched above my head to keep the remote away from him.
But as we stare at each other, my laughter dies. I watch the smile fade from his face and his eyes darken. He glances down at my lips, and my chest tightens. My fingers relax, and the remote falls onto the floor with a clatter, but neither of us moves to snatch it up. His voice, playing through the TV’s speakers, echoes in the background, but I can’t take my eyes off the mouth so close to mine, all I would have to do is tilt my chin up to meet it.
“Grace…” He traces the line of my jaw with his index finger. “I told Na Na there was no way we were going to get together, and I only hung out with her to help publicize our drama.”
My heart pounds against the inside of my ribs, partly in elation at his words, but mostly from the adrenaline spiking my veins. All I want is for him to close the gap between us. But fear kicks in, and warning flags shoot up inside my head. You can’t trust a boy with a guitar. I may wish he loved me, but that’s just a fantasy. He is a fantasy.
Chewing the inside of my cheek and recalling the anger I felt in Seoul when he acted so embarrassed by me, I turn my head away and press both palms against his chest. I only have to exert a little pressure before he backs off, sitting up and running a hand through his hair. He doesn’t say anything, but his eyes throw a dozen questions at me, none of which I can answer.
I hop off the bed, clearing my throat in hopes of shattering the awkwardness. “I should probably go back. It’s getting late. I’ll call you tomorrow, and we can plan something to do. Sound good?” But I don’t wait for him to answer, just search the room for my things. “We can exercise. It’ll be good for you to do something active, get those endorphins pumping. Maybe I’ll even cart you around on the back of a bicycle.”
“Grace,” he interrupts my monologue.
“Hmm?”
“I—I’m sorry.” Regret swallows his eyes, which punches my gut like a fist.
“What are you talking about? I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I flee before he can say anything else. But when I escape into the hallway, I stop. Tears prick the backs of my eyes, and I lean my head back against the closed door. I can’t deny how I feel about Jason—how his smile makes my stomach flip-flop, how I celebrate a victory every time he trusts me with a new bit of his past, and how his presence helps me forget about everything I left back in Nashville.
But we will never work.
This thing between us—whatever it is—can never go past friendship. Even if he is interested in me, I need a guy who’s stable, who doesn’t remind me of my brother. I need someone I don’t always have to take care of, someone who can take care of me, too, and who is happy to have me beside him, even in the public eye. But when I try to picture the kind of boy I want, the kind I need, all I can envision is Jason.
Always Jason.
Chapter Twenty-one
I try spending less time with Jason, but my resolve lasts for maybe forty-eight hours before I realize hanging out with Sophie isn’t enough. But I tell myself that just because I’m spending time with Jason doesn’t mean I’m committing to any sort of relationship. We’re friends, that’s all.
After school one day, we wander out to the lawn behind the dining hall, where we sprawl underneath one of the trees.
“Shouldn’t we be studying for finals?” Jason picks random chords on his guitar.
“Probably,” I answer.