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Taking a deep breath, I send my response.
Jackson:
Because I want to see you, and that show is the closest we’ll be to campus.
It takes longer for her to text back this time, but when her message comes in, it brings a smile to my lips.
Margot:
Are you saying you miss me?
My heart pounds in my chest as I type.
Jackson:
Too much.
The seconds turn into minutes with no new messages. If she didn’t want me to say I missed her, why ask? Rolling my eyes, I get to my feet and start walking toward home.
But not before I call her.
59
margot
When Jackson’s name flashes on my screen as an incoming call, I drop my phone. It lands on my bed with a soft thud, but all I do is stare at it.
Why is he calling me?
I’m caught between feeling like I’ve won the lottery and also like I’ve done something to get myself into trouble. I hesitate like it might shock me if I touch it. But I somehow know Jackson will know if I ignore him. The answer bar at the bottom of the screen taunts me with every passing second until I can’t take it anymore. Just before the call goes to voicemail, I snatch my phone from my bed and answer, my heart racing. “Jackson?”
My head falls forward. How dumb must I sound? Of course, it’s him. His name was literally just staring me in the face.
“Do you think about me?”
My heart stutters. “What?” I ask with a nervous laugh.
“Do you think about me?” he asks again with all seriousness.
My chest tightens, the fear of confessing anything to him gripping me like a vice. “Why are you asking me that?”
“Because I think about you, and I want to know if you think about me, too.”
“You think about me?”
A muffled groan comes through the phone, and I can picture him rubbing his hand over his face perfectly. “For fuck’s sake, Margot. Yes, I think about you. Every damn day.”
How does my entire body get warm just from hearing him say something over the phone? This shouldn’t be allowed. He shouldn’t be able to affect me the way he does. Especially not when he’s hundreds of miles away. I know I should say something meaningful back to that, but the only word that tumbles from my mouth is, “Good.”
The bite of his forced laugh cuts through me. “Yeah. Good for who?”
I frown. He doesn’t sound like himself. He sounds . . . bothered, and he usually isn’t fazed by anything. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t know.” His words drag out of him like a groan. “I just left Matt’s house, and he—I just don’t want to waste my time.”
My teeth sink into my bottom lip. “So, that’s why you called? To ask me if I think about you?”
“Yes,” he says in a strained voice that chips away at me.
