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We’ve been going to this class for weeks now, and I never see him. We never even come close to walking to class together because I always leave early, and he’s always borderline late.
He points over his shoulder. “Want me to go back?”
“No.” I shake my head. “Just—” I falter, glancing at him. “Why are you bringing your guitar to class, anyway?”
A trace of a smirk crosses his lips. “Worried I might embarrass you?”
I scoff. “You’d only embarrass yourself.”
“Relax, Red. I’m skipping my afternoon class to go straight to practice and get a few hours in with the band.”
If he were anyone else, I’d probably question that. I’d probably worry about him skipping class, but because of who he is, and because of how little I’m willing to invest in him, I just say, “How’s that been going? Balancing it all.”
“It sucks.” The way he sighs out the words makes me think he’s been wanting to get that off his chest for a while. “I don’t know how long I’ll be able to keep it up. The guys are being flexible, but I hate asking them to work their schedules around mine. Sometimes they practice without me, and not being there kills me. They must hate it too, but they know I’m good at showing up and knowing my shit.” He glances at me with a trace of uncertainty that probably matches my own.
I’m not sure why he just told me all that either.
Nodding, I just say, “That does suck.” I’m not sure what else to say, but we still have a little time before we get to class, and I’d rather not walk in awkward silence. “What do you think you’ll do?”
He shrugs, adjusting the guitar strap on his shoulder. “I’m not sure. A lot depends on if we end up touring. I can probably keep this up while we’re doing local shows, but the band wants to go on the road. We’d only be opening for someone else, but if that happens, I’ll drop out.”
This gets my full attention, my feet halting. Living next to Jackson may not be the most enjoyable part of college, but it’s become my new normal. It’s weird to think of him not being across the hall. “What?”
He’s a few steps ahead of me when he realizes I’ve stopped. Turning to face me, he tilts his head. “Oh, come on. Don’t tell me you’ll miss me.”
“Not likely.” My feet move beneath me again. “I just think that’s a big decision.”
We’ve reached the door to our classroom, and he surprisingly holds it open for me to walk through first. “I know it is,” he says as I walk past him. “But the fact that I have the opportunity to even consider it means I’m doing something right.”
I give him a small smile before heading to the front of the room. Jackson hangs back, taking his seat in the last row while I take mine in the front. I try to give the professor my full attention as she writes on the board, but I can’t shake the thought of Jackson leaving. Imagining him not living across from me anymore leaves a hollow feeling in my chest. I shouldn’t care if Jackson leaves—if anything, I should feel some type of relief at the thought of not having to face off against him every time we step outside our respective spaces.
But I don’t.
I don’t feel any relief. Instead, the new hollowness makes room for budding anxiety. It creeps in slowly, but as soon as the thought hits me, it feels like an ambush.
What if I never see him again? What if this is where my knowing Jackson starts and ends?
I bite the inside of my lip, desperate to not face what this means. If there’s one thing I know, it’s that I shouldn’t miss Jackson Phillips.
But if he leaves, I think I might.
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jackson
As soon as class ends, I slip out the back and head to my car. The guys are already together and waiting for me.
I don’t know why I said all of that to Margot earlier. I haven’t even told Matt about the possibility of dropping out. Partly because I haven’t seen much of him lately. I’m usually with the band when I’m not in class, and he’s with Rae every waking hour. But another part of me is worried he’ll be pissed. College was something we were supposed to do together. I may not care about bailing on college or bailing on my dad’s dreams, but I don’t want to bail on Matt.
Dave’s house is only a ten-mile drive from campus, but with traffic full of tourists and retirees, it’s painful. The more I think about how nice it would be to practice with the band whenever I want, the more I want to walk away from USF for good.
Dave’s garage is open when I get there, and the guys are all drinking beer as they set up. Dave sits on a stool, his legs perched on the pegs as he talks to our drummer, Brady. It’s our bass guitarist, Marty, who sees me first, giving me a nod. As I step out of my car, I hear him say, “The puppy’s here.”
I flip him the bird, and he grins. It’s all in good fun, but I hate the nickname.
Dave spins on his stool to greet me. “Hey, man. Ready for the gig Friday?”
I nod. “I feel like I’ve been waiting for Friday my entire life.”
