Jaxon: What’s your favorite movie?
Me: Atm? To All The Boys I’ve Loved Before
Me: Of all time? Some Kind of Wonderful
Me: Yours
Jaxon: Die Hard
Me: Seriously?
Jaxon: What’s wrong with Die Hard?
Me: Nothing
Jaxon: Jk. It’s Rogue One
Me: The Star Wars movie where everybody dies????
Jaxon: The Star Wars movie where people sacrifice themselves to save their galaxy
Jaxon: There are worse ways to die
It’s not the answer I’m expecting, but now that he’s said it, I can totally see how that movie would appeal to this guy who has gone out of his way to rescue me over and over again. Even Die Hard makes sense when I put it in that light. A main character who’s willing to die if it means keeping other people safe.
There’s a lot more to Jaxon than the person I met at the bottom of the stairs my first day here. I mean, he’s still the jerk who told me not to let the door hit me on my way out. That’s not something I’m likely to forget any time soon. But he’s also the guy who saved me from Marc and Quinn. And the guy who carried me all the way back to my dorm room last night. That has to count for something, right?
Plus, I can’t believe how different he is when there’s no one else around. When it’s just the two of us texting and he’s not so busy trying to convince me that he wants nothing to do with me…and, more, that I should want nothing to do with him.
I wish I could ask the real Jaxon Vega to please stand up, but the truth is, I’m kind of hoping he’s the guy who’s been texting me for the last two hours. And if he’s not…well, I guess I don’t want to know that yet.
Me: Favorite ice cream flavor?
Jaxon: Don’t have one
Me: Because you like them all???
Me: Which, btw, is the only acceptable answer to not having a favorite
Jaxon: I think we both know there are a million different reasons I’m unacceptable and ice cream choice barely makes the list
That line shouldn’t make me swoon. It shouldn’t, especially when it’s so obviously a warning. But how can it not when it’s delivered by the same boy who said Rogue One is his favorite movie?
It’s pretty obvious Jaxon is the villain of his own story. I just wish I knew why.
Jaxon: Favorite song?
Me: OMG, I can’t choose
Jaxon: What if I said you had to?
Me: I can’t. There are too many
Me: You?
Jaxon: I asked you first
Me: Ugh. You suck
Jaxon: You have no idea how much
Me: Okay, fine
Me: Atm, Niall Horan’s Put a Little Love on Me and anything by Maggie Rogers
Me: Of all time? Take Me to Church by Hozier or Umbrella from Rihanna
Me: You?
Jaxon: Savage Garden Truly, Madly, Deeply
Jaxon: Anything by Childish Gambino or Beethoven
Jaxon: Van Morrison’s “Brown-Eyed Girl” is my new favorite, though
I drop my phone because…what do I say to that? How am I not supposed to swoon over this boy? Like, seriously? How am I not supposed to swoon? It’s impossible.
I pick my phone back up with shaking hands. He hasn’t texted anything else, but to be honest, I don’t expect him to for a while. That was…a lot.
Instead, I swipe open my Spotify app. And play “Brown-Eyed Girl”…on repeat.
I’m still listening to it when Macy stops by around noon to check on me. “What are you listening to?” she queries, nose wrinkled.
“It’s a long story.”
She eyes me speculatively. “I bet. You should tell me all about—” She breaks off when she sees the remains of my very big breakfast. “Where did you get the waffle?” she demands, crossing the room so she can scoop a little of the leftover whipped cream out of its bowl and suck it off her finger. “It’s not Thursday.”
I stare at her, baffled. “I don’t even know what that means.”
“It means the cafeteria only makes waffles on Thursdays. And we only get whipped cream on special occasions.” She dives back into the whipped-cream bowl, holds up a finger covered in the sweet, fluffy stuff. “Today is not a special occasion.”
“Apparently, it is,” I answer with a shrug, and I try to ignore the way her words warm me up all over. “At least for me.”
Not going to lie, it feels like a special occasion. How can it not when I have texts on my phone from Jaxon right now telling me this is his favorite song?
“I can’t believe my dad had them make you—” My face must give it away, because she breaks off mid-sentence. “This breakfast didn’t come from my dad, did it?”