Page 7 of And They Were Roommates

As he rummages through books scattered across his desk, a silver bracelet jangles against his wrist, competing with the cricket chirps filtering through the cracked-open window for most obnoxious, high-pitched sound. “I assume you’d like my autograph? I’ve never offered this to anyone before, so please keep this hush-hush from my followers.”

“Wait, what?”

Jasper holds up a paperback book like a trophy.Love Is a Broken Party Clowncurves around a poorly drawn crying clown printed on the cover. The title isn’t what makes my brow furrow. It’s the author’s name.Hisname.

“You published a book?” I ask, and I fail to hold back my sass this time.

Jasper’s head tilts like he almost recognizes it. Like this was definitely how I spoke to him when we first met at camp too.

My whole body tenses.

“Poetry collection,” he finally says, slowly and curiously. “My most popular posts online.” He signs the inside with a permanent marker and hands me the copy. “For you, roommate.”

My brain glitches as I hold the very real signed book. What about him could be impressive enough for him to have followers? Books? Posters?

It must be because of his looks.

“Thanks,” I mutter despite the gift being wasted on me. The only reason I met Jasper at camp was because I was forced to take that poetry workshop alongside my lectures and reading hours about the greats. What’s the point of writing poetry if you’re not one of those greats? Regurgitating your own overemotional, gushy soup?

Jasper steps deeper into the room, outstretching his arms, his bracelet jingling again like an annoying bell. “Do you appreciate what I’ve done to the place?”

I’ve been so overwhelmed by his presence that I didn’t notice. A crystal vase is on a new side table, a candle collection is set on the windowsill, and a freaking life-sized cardboard cutout of himself is propped between our beds. Mardi Gras beads hang from his cardboard neck.

I would’ve rather enjoyed a bookshelf.

Jasper clasps his hands together. “Do you?”

I don’t know. Do you remember who I am?I clench my fist to compose myself. Jasper forgetting is beneficial. As long as I can prevent him from remembering, then he can’t report who I am to his aunt.

But being able to keep my burning hatred toward him a secret?

I glare at the poster of Jasper on the ceiling, the cardboard cutout, and then back to the real Jasper. “You’ve made yourself a prominent focal point.”

“Thank you.”

“That wasn’t—” I force a smile. “You’re welcome.”

“I’m just brimming with questions about you, roommate,” Jasper says, clasping his hands together. He inspects me with big, expectant eyes. “Do you have pets? Any hobbies? What’s your family like? Do you have siblings? Please, don’t hold back.”

My insides shrivel into a prune. “I. Well—”

Jasper waves a hand. “Apologies, I’m getting ahead of myself again. You deserve to settle in before we start learning more about one another.”

“Yeah. Yes. Thank you.”

“Of course. After you rest, that is when you will answer all my questions.”

I try to hold in a grimace.

“We must spend some intimate time together soon, then,” Jasper says, ever oblivious to my discomfort. “Tomorrow. Let’s meet for lunch between classes.”

“I’m bus—”

“Wonderful,” he says. He heads to his dresser, squatting to dig through his unfolded pajamas shoved in the bottom drawer. Conversation over, apparently. He tosses plaid pants over his shoulder.

I frown and walk to my own dresser, pulling out one of my folded Valentine-branded pajama sets, then turn back around. “Sorry, but I really can’t meet you for lunch—”

Jasper’s shirt is off. His pants, barely on.

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