Page 51 of And They Were Roommates

The moment my curiosity lets the question slip out of my mouth, regret hits hard. Asking about Jasper’s life is the last thing I should do when a wall as towering as the cockblockade needs to stay between us. I shouldn’t evenwantto know. Idon’t.

But it’s too late. Jasper is already huffing so hard that his blond hair flutters around his face as he considers his response. “What is there to say? One day, he was STRIP’s crux. The next, he was gone. He never warned us. Sure he’s having a blast now, writing of his visits to France with his mother or the Philippines with his father. To leave us behind, though? A career can wait. I wish to make Valentine count.”

The theory makes sense, but it doesn’t align with how Xavier reacted when I asked; hehadtalked to P.M. before he left.

Still, a weight that hasn’t left my chest in weeks lifts. The previous Excellence Scholar didn’t necessarily fail. “So, when you joined STRIP, you weren’t like Xavier.”

Jasper frustratedly sets down his pen. “Von Hevringprinz, no,I did not have a girlfriend like Xavier. Ihavenot. Where are thoseI love yous?”

He’s lying. He has to be.

“Not happening,” I snap back.

Only once Jasper glances at the other tables do I realize how loudly I spoke and how many distant stares are finding us. Immediately, Luis’s claim about the spreading rumors filters into my mind. How many times have I scolded Jasper in public like this before without realizing so many eyes were around? Maybe those rumors are partially my fault.

They aren’t the only ones giving me looks. Jasper is, too, now. Although it’s a much more intense one, almost probing, like he’s recalling how manynot happenings I also gave him back when we sat on the lakeside years ago and he insistently asked me to recite my poetry workshop assignments. The fact that I keep forgetting to watch how I talk to Jasper makes my heart rate spike higher than it has all day. He’s getting toofamiliar.

No. I’m getting toocomfortable.

We need to finish this deal. Quick.

“Then I hereby allow you a two-week extension for your nineteen letters,” Jasper finally says. “One week to write, and one for you to discover how to stop being scared.”

“I’m notscared.” I try to say it quietly this time, but I’m barely successful.

Because if I can’t even write a roses-are-red poem, how can I possibly follow his rules of seduction to get our room to myself? I flip through my notebook and stop at Jasper’s third EROS.

Love does not have to make sense; neither do your words.

Maybe I can’t do this alone, but there might be someone who can help.

Chapter 19THE ART OF WAR

FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 27

Outside of class and weekly STRIP deliveries to and from both campuses, Blaze A. Destroyer frequents the Dixon Writing Gazebo by Au Sable Forks Lake, and no one knows why. That’s what Xavier claims when he invites me to sit with him during dinner and I ask where I can most easily hunt down Blaze.

According to Jasper, P.M. Laframboise sells thousands of copies despite barely anyone understanding what he means, let alone how he feels. Why can’t I cover up my lack of feelings toward romance the same way? If anything can help me, it’s Blaze’s bizarre yet admittedly extravagant language skills.

But when I walk the path up to the Dixon Writing Gazebo, the place seems abandoned. The empty trellis gazebo is simply surrounded by diamond topiaries, the sounds of nighttime insects in the woods, and the setting sun reflected along the water.

The same lakeside where Jasper and I kissed.

A pang strikes my heart. We never sat on this side. Workshops were on the sister campus. But the air carries the same earthy undertones, and the waves roll over the same sand mostly made up of gravel. Jasper always whined that sitting on it was like getting a hot stone massage.

Then those three girls came to me on the last day of camp, and they showed me the letters he’d been sending them the whole time.

Forcing myself to shake the memory away, I step through thegazebo entry entwined with vines. First Dixon Dining Hall, and now Dixon Gazebo, fit for a prince.

Unspoken Guideline 13: Be nice to Bingo A. Dixon when I finally meet him. Whoever his family is, they have a long history here—and a rich-as-hell one.

Rustling erupts behind me. I whip my head around, but the topiaries are motionless. No classmates on the shore.

“Hello?” I call out.

No response.

I warily approach the bushes.

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