For long seconds, he just looks at me. Then he kind of shakes his head and says, “Never mind.” He walks past me, opens the door to the room that lays just beyond the alcove, and walks inside.
I stare after him, not sure what I’m supposed to do. It feels like our conversation is over, like he just dismissed me, but he left his door open in what looks like an invitation.
I stand there for another minute or so, undecided, before he finally sticks his head back out the door. “Coming?” he asks.
I follow him inside—of course I do. But I’m completely unprepared for what I find when I walk into the room, a room I can’t help thinking of as my own private wonderland.
Books are everywhere, stacked haphazardly on nearly every available surface.
There are three guitars in the corner, along with a drum kit that has my mouth watering and my fingers itching to touch it. To play it, like I used to play mine back when I still had one.
Back when I still had a lot of things.
In the center of the room is a giant black leather couch, covered with piles of thick, soft pillows that all but beg to be napped on.
I want to touch everything, want to run my hands over the drum kit just so I can feel its soul. I have just enough self-control left not to follow my impulses, but it’s hard. So hard that I can’t help but tuck my hands in my blazer pockets, just to be on the safe side.
Because I’ve only just now realized that this is Jaxon’s dorm room, and to say it’s unexpected is pretty much the understatement of the century.
Jaxon seems completely uninterested in his surroundings, which seems bizarre to me even though I know it’s because this is his stuff. He sees and touches and uses it every day. But there’s a part of me that still wants to know how he can just ignore the pile of art books by the couch or the giant purple crystal on his desk. It’s the same part of me all but screaming that, no matter what Jaxon thinks, I’m nowhere near cool enough to be in here with him.
Since he’s not talking, I turn to look at the art on the wall, big, wild paintings with bold colors and strokes that excite all kinds of ideas inside me. And hanging next to his desk—even more unbelievably—is a small pencil sketch of a woman with wild hair and sly eyes, dressed in a voluminous kimono.
I recognize it, or at least I think I do, so I walk closer, trying to get a better look. And sure enough—
“This is a Klimt!” I tell him.
“Yes,” he affirms.
“That wasn’t a question.” It’s under glass, so I reach out and tap the artist’s signature in the bottom right corner. “This is an original Klimt, not a reproduction.”
This time he doesn’t say anything, not even yes.
“So you’re just going to stand there with your hands in your pockets?” I demand. “You’re not even going to answer me?”
“You just told me you weren’t asking questions.”
“I’m not. But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to hear the story.”
He shrugs. “There’s no story.”
“You have an original Klimt hanging next to your desk. Believe me, there’s a story there.” My hands are shaking as I trace the lines through the glass once again. I’ve never been this close to one of his pieces before.
“I liked it. It reminded me of someone. I bought it.”
“That’s it? That’s your story?” I stare at him incredulously.
“I told you there wasn’t a story. You insisted there was.” He cocks his head to the side, watches me through narrowed eyes. “Did you want me to lie?”
“I want you to…” I shake my head, blow out another long breath. “I don’t know what I want you to do.”
At that, he lets out a small laugh—the very first sign of emotion he’s shown since that one frantic are you okay in the art room. “I know the feeling.”
He’s halfway across the room, and there’s a part of me that wishes he were closer. That wishes we were touching right now.
Of course, there’s another part of me that’s still terrified of touching him, even more terrified of having him touch me. Being in his room is too much. Looking at him worry his lower lip in the first show of nerves I’ve ever seen from him is too much.
Being touched by him, held by him, kissed by him, would be so, so, so too much that I’m afraid I’ll implode at the first brush of his lips against mine. Afraid I’ll just burn up where I’m standing. No warning, no chance to stop it. Just a brush of his hand against mine and poof, I’m a goner. I swear it almost happened when he carried me back to my room the other night, and that was before he sent me waffles and walked me to class and charmed me with his text messages. Way before I saw this place.