And They Were Roommates(32)

Yet Jasper is gone. Again.

Unspoken Guideline 11: We can get detention for staying out a bit too late, but the principal’s nephew can seemingly stay out every night. Doing what? He has that many friends?

My mouth twists. All these guidelines are becoming about Jasper.

As I sigh and set down my backpack, his side of the room distracts me. His floor is a bog of crumpled paper, old Laney’s Bean Shack cups, and dirty clothes. But his bed is made, not a wrinkle in his decorative ambrosia flower quilt, and his Pierre-Marie Laframboise book is set on the eleven throw pillows. The only Excellence Scholar who pleases him.

Maybe P.M. is who I should emulate in my letters.

I walk over to inspect the flimsy cover. A Craving for Champagne: Poems is encircled by illustrated forks and knives accented by gold foil. A poetry collection. About food?

I flip to the first page.

a heady rush of champagne bubbles as we lose our sweetened troubles a symphony of sighs and whispers as we find each other’s kisses



I slap the book shut and hurl it at the pillows.

Not food.

I head into the bathroom to shower and try to forget that happened. If Jasper admires this stuff, then what is his like? Not that I care what his is like.

As I rip off my sweaty uniform, I catch a glimpse of my chest in the mirror. A place I try to never look. I reach for the towel on my wall hook and wrap it beneath my arms. This way, no one will spot my scars. The only way. But I could never walk around like this during PE.

And my training with Xavier. If I kept rushing back here instead of the locker room to shower after, would he catch on? Would everyone?

The nerves are too much, and I push them away. I toss my towel over the top of the opaque shower door, start the water, take off my glasses, and slip inside.

“CHARLIE!”

Knocking comes at the bathroom door. I screech.

“Charlie von Hevringprinz?” A shadowed hand knocks on the shower door. A bracelet jangles against the wrist. Jasper.

Blood pounds in my ears as I cross my arms and legs tight. I snatch my towel and wrap it beneath my shoulders again without thinking, water still pouring on me. I need a room to myself now. Yesterday. A year ago. “Y-yes?!”

“I—opin—boo—!” His voice is too muffled.

“What?!” I shout back.

Jasper opens the shower. He grips my damp shoulders, and I squeeze the towel so hard that my knuckles turn white. “Good, you’re in here! I need your opinion on—”

“Sir,” a deep voice calls, “where should the bookcase go?”

Jasper whips his head around so fast that his blond ponytail smacks my cheek. “Between the two beds, please.”

I peek my head out of the shower. “Who’s in our room?”

“Mailroom concierge.” His head tilts as he processes the soaked towel wrapped around me. “Freshen up first, roommate.”

In a whirlwind of red-and-black plaid, he’s gone, back into our shared room. I rush out of the shower to lock the bathroom doorknob, blood pumping so loudly everywhere through me that I don’t even hear the click—because, apparently, I even have to lock this when he isn’t here. This is seriously how guys interact.

I can’t do this any longer.

My legs quaver. I grip the door for stability, then force myself to attempt the rest of my shower, to keep going. I’ll finish the deal with Jasper, and this will soon be a distant memory. Every bump and knock from the bedroom nearly lurches my heart out of my throat and sends it spiraling down the drain. I finish fast, then toss on my plaid pajamas and step out of the bathroom.

Whoever that concierge was, he’s gone. Now there’s a new bookcase rising between our beds. Half of Jasper’s books that once coated the floor are organized on the shelves. He stands at the center of the rug, plaid blazer slung over a shoulder and tie missing. A walking dress-code violation, yet not a violation on his record.

I pointedly focus on the bookcase. Suddenly, I’m hyperaware of my wet hair hanging in flat clumps and exposing my face more than usual, especially after everything Jasper just saw. I lift my pajama shirt collar higher. “You do own a bookcase.”

“Not me. We.”

“Huh?”

“A while ago, you said we should.”

I approach the bookcase and run my hand along the side engraved with a pansy flower pattern that matches the wallpaper. Most of the books are Jasper’s poetry and romance novels, but the middle is classics. Including Othello. My favorite. The top frame, carved into a scroll, is adorned with doves and olive branches and more pansies. Cursive lettering is etched into the wood.

Mr. Grimes & Mr. von Hevringprinz Jasper’s lopsided dimple pops, which does look annoyingly charming. Unfortunately, I understand why he won Sexiest Poet of the Year, even though the existence of that award confounds me. “What do you think?”

It’s ridiculous. Pointless. The moment our deal is done, Jasper and I won’t be roommates, yet our names are on there like some wedding invitation.

But it also feels like an apology. I’m sort of stunned by that. “It’s … Thank you.”

His face lights up. “It’s the least I could do for my roommate.”

Warmth rises in my chest at how genuine he sounds. I cross my arms tightly against myself to smush the feeling out of me. “Then could you do me one last favor and learn how to knock before opening our doors?”