And They Were Roommates(45)

I’d already been telling myself that since I arrived. So why does my heart hurt so terribly, hearing the same from Jasper?

“Anyway, von Hevringprinz.” Jasper closes the space between us and reaches toward me, only to pull back. His hand hangs awkwardly in the air like I shocked him. He’s never had a problem with invading my personal space before.

“You good?”

“Y-yes,” Jasper says, but on a strange trill. He tries again, taking my hand into his.

“What are you doing?” I ask with a waver in my voice.

Jasper guides me away from the doorway, deeper into the room, and I’m so thrown off that I let him. He sits in the candlelit heart, letting go, then pats the space beside him on the rug. As I sit, he pours me sparkling apple juice into a plastic cup stolen from Dix and hands it to me. “We’re scrapping my EROS. What do you wish to write?”

“Me?”

“Whatever you’d like, write it now. No lesson. No rules. Five minutes.”

“I don’t know if this is better or worse.”

Jasper leans his weight on a palm, his drink hovering by his lips. Waiting.

I aimlessly look around the room until I land on our bookcase. Othello catches my eye, then some classics, and then a box set of Sherlock Holmes. Getting back up and digging through my backpack by the door, I pull out my blackout poetry assignment.

“Care to share with the class?” Jasper says from the circle. The candlelight has his uniform glowing a brighter red than usual, and his lips even more.

I return beside him. “I was just—”

Jasper takes the packet out of my hand. “Let me see.”

Nerves lurch up my throat as he reads. I pick at my nails as the minutes pass. Either he has the reading level of a first-grader as Rank One or he’s analyzing the page multiple times.

Finally, Jasper lifts his head. He smiles as charmingly as the posters and cutouts on his walls, no matter how much I deny it. “May I ask you to be date?”

“Couldn’t find a my,” I mumble.

“I see that.”

“And the letters won’t be personalized anymore if it’s blackout poetry. But.”

“I disagree.” He twirls a finger toward our bookcase. “Inside any story over there, you’ll find words that relate to our patrons’ qualms. It’s a compelling idea.”

I squirm along the rug. “You can tell me if it’s bad.”

“Charlie. Blackout poems are some of the most difficult to craft. The fact that you got this close on your first try is”—he chuckles—“impressive. You’re special, I hope you know.”

Special.

Finally. The word comes from his lips.

People have told me that I’m special before. A special student. A special candidate for our scholarship. Yet my stomach won’t stop flipping.

Why? Because an empty bedroom is closer in reach, knowing I might stand a chance at writing these letters?

But I wasn’t even thinking about my room. This illness again?

No. This is something I’ve felt before.

Jasper clasps my forearm only briefly. I jolt. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.” Except a phantom burn remains where he touched. This is a disease. The flu. I’m dying. I have to be.

This isn’t anything else.

Jasper keeps studying my blackout poetry. “I once knew someone who had the same hesitations toward writing as you. Hated poetry, even.”

The words suck out all the air from my lungs. I stare at him—at the way his voice is so distant and soft. Almost like he’s remembering.

I force out a warbly laugh. “Really?”

“Really. You two had so little confidence, yet you eventually touched the stars.”

I swipe the page out of his grasp and press it to my chest. “Well, thank you for being an incredible love tutor!”

That’s when the regret hits. Because now Jasper’s face is shifting, and the corners of his blue eyes are crinkling in a way I’ve never seen. I’m too terrified to move, to even scatter my bangs over my eyes or cover myself. Obviously, Rank One would assess this abnormal reaction. He remembered camp. Workshop. Our kiss. My first kiss.

It’s over.

“Hey, Charlie.” It’s the first time Jasper has said only my first name, and I have no clue what that means, let alone what he’s thinking that means. A fragile, almost pained look flashes across his face, but then he wipes it away with a head shake that comes off frustrated. With himself? “I think you’re ready to help me with real love letters.”

My body remains motionless, like if I shift a centimeter, he could still remember. “What comes next, then? There’s only a little over a month left until the mixer.”

“Correct.” His voice is slightly more melodic now, back to his version of normal. “There are roughly eighty patrons left to be served. Take a third of those?” He points at our bookcase. “Rip out any pages from those books and use them.”

“Once these letters are delivered, you’ll still leave our room, right?”

Jasper hesitates. “I suppose that was our deal.”

It was our deal. And it’s more important than ever with how close Jasper keeps getting to the truth. Yet my heart illogically sinks at the thought.