Page 85 of Jaded

Okay, quick. Pivot, Olls. “Do you ever play your guitar at parties?”

“Hell no.” He laughs, all the tension and sadness and anger compiled across his features dissolving with that one sound, with the tilt of his head, the flash of his white teeth. “Nope. I got yelled at the one and only time I tried to do that.”

“What?!” I set my bottle down a little too hard. “People don’t wanna hear you play?”

“People don’t want to hear what I want to play.”

“Well, I would.” Is it awkward that I just said that? Maybe. I drain the rest of my beer, then flutter my lashes over the rim of the bottle. “I think emo-bois are hot.”

He laughs. Again. My internal organs rearrange themselves in a happy jitterbug kinda dance.

“Is that so? Emo-boi is your type?”

As if on cue, the music cuts out suddenly and my playlist takes over. Fort Minor’s “Remember the Name” starts banging out of the speakers.

I shrug. “I don’t really have atype. I’m demi, right, so I am more attracted to how Ifeelabout a person, or how they make me feel, than I am to physical aspects . . . and now I’m talking way too much, sorry,sorry, sorry.”

“Don’t be.” His eyes are sparking green flames in the dim light of the bar. “But that would explain why you like emo-bois. Because music makes you feel.”

How can I lay a truth on him like that, and he just takes it in stride? Like when he showed up to the game with masks ready to deploy?

How does hegetme like this?

The words stick in my throat. And in the background, my boppin’, bangin’ playlist hops on over to Krewella, “Live for the Night.”

“Damn,” Nat murmurs. “Syd loves this song.”

Damn, that’s adorable.

“Are you worrying about her?” Oh look at me, just killing the mood, ’cause hi, I’m Olli James, mood-killer. “Is that why you’re over here by yourself? Or are you feeling like you don’t belong?”

His green eyes go wide with surprise, and I’m pretty sure I’ve overstepped and I’m about to get a big ol’ metaphorical wall shoved up between me and him. No more laughter, no more music heart-to-hearts, no someday getting to ask about his tattoos.

Instead he says, “Little of both, I guess.”

I tilt my head, considering. “Why do you worry about her? She seems like a good kid. Is it because of Avery?”

“Yeah.” He sighs.

“He’s trouble?”

He spins his whiskey glass against the tabletop. “He’s me when I was his age. And that scares the shit out of me for Syd.”

“Oh. Um.” I wince. “Yeah, I get that. So . . . tell me if I’m out of line here, but where is Syd’s mom?”

Nat wraps his fingers around his glass, but his voice is calm. “She left town when Syd was about a week old. Never heard from her again.”

I stare, my mouth hanging. “Damn. Poor Syd.”

PoorNat. That’s . . . well, that’s a life-changer.

“Yeah. And no.” Nat simply shrugs, like he’s made peace with it. “Sam was a wanderer. I honestly spent most of our relationship waiting for her to vanish. Almost a relief when she left before Syd got a chance to fall in love with her.”

“One way to look at it . . .” But the way he says it, raw and rough like that, makes me remember that he’s got a stepmom—Brenda. “Is that what happened with your mom?”

His eyes go round as saucers as they snap up from his glass. “How do you fucking do that?”

“Do what?”

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