Page 98 of And They Were Roommates

But it’s too late, yet another smile tugging at his lips as he returns to his journal. Like he thinks he knows me better than anyone.

Jasperisthe only one I’ve ever shared a bedroom with. The only one I’ve spent a summer with outside Mom or Delilah. The only one I’ve kissed. Does he know me better than anyone?

Can I trust Jasper?

“Jasper?” I say toward my lap.

“Yes, Charlie?”

“I meant my surgery scars. Earlier, when I said not to look.”

“I know. I figured it out.”

Still not an apology. Ineedto. I lift my head. Look at him. “I’m sorry I yelled. And threw clothes at you. And I’m sorry I knocked over your bottles. I know you like them a certain way.”

“It’s all right.” Jasper smiles at his journal.

My heart pounds at how kind it looks. Understanding, even. I still waver before speaking again. “I told Xavier.”

His pen stops moving. “Xavier won’t tell anyone. But I know you’re even unsure about me, so I don’t expect you to believe me—”

“I want to believe you.” The words come out before I fully comprehend I’m saying them, and for a second, I regret it for how open and raw I feel in the aftermath. But that’s also how I know what I said is the truth.

Jasper blinks back at me. “I hope you can someday.”

Chapter 35THE SUN ALSO RISES

THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 7

When the bell tower curses campus with seven bongs, my face is planted in a book of blackout poetry. I grunt as I sit up in my desk chair, trying to piece together my memory from the night before. After Jasper helped me with my literature guide, I moved over here to work on mixer letters. I finished four.

Only thirty more.

I glance around the room. No Jasper. But there’s proof of his morning routine in the way pieces of his uniform are newly strewn around his desk and bed.

Something slips off my shoulder. I look down.

A patchwork quilt, dotted with ambrosia flowers.

Chapter 36BREAKFAST OF CHAMPIONS

MONDAY, NOVEMBER 11

“DON’T DIE ON ME, V.H.!”

I jolt upright and grip my surroundings. My face is wet. Beneath me is my bowl of Cheerios on the table.

A paper napkin thrusts into my view.

Luis, his mouth wriggling like a worm in disgust at my milk face. “Bro, did you zonk out in your cereal?”

I take the napkin and rub my nose, then the rest of my drenched face. It’s more of a challenge than I expect. My limbs are limp noodles, and my brain is on fire from this headache. “What were you saying? Your cat?”

Instead of answering, Luis plucks a soggy Cheerio off my cheek and flicks it on the Dix floor. “How much did you zonk last night?”

This last week has been a blur of training and studying and letter writing with Jasper, and now it’s already finals for Hours 1 through 3 on my schedule. Has my head hit the pillow once?

“I don’t”—I yawn—“remember.”

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