Page 46 of Best Man on Campus

“Let’s hear the song in person. I need to work on memorizing it.”

“Studying tonight? You’re a barrel of monkeys.”

“What?”

“It’s something Grams used to say.” She shrugs it off, but her smile is gone. She waves me to the couch and picks up her guitar and sits on the windowsill across the room from me. I want to drag her to the couch to sit with me, but I don’t. I’m doing a lot of holding back and my gut churns with warning. But when she starts rapping, without a prompter or a cheat sheet, all the way through the study sheet of terms I sent her without missing a beat, my jaw drops and I don’t know if it’ll close anytime soon.

“You memorized the entire fucking—”

“Fuck you. Do you think I’m stupid? It’s a song. A rap song. I’ve written and sung them before.”

Getting to my feet, I go to her. I take the guitar from her and plant my mouth on hers, infusing all that I’m feeling, the admiration, the awe, and the hope. When I let her go, she pushes me away.

“You might be forgiven for your insult, but since you’re bent on studying, let’s hear you sing along this time.” She picks up her guitar again and slows it down and, laughing, I do it, I catch the beat and talk-sing the rap.

“You know you’re a genius, right?” I say after a couple of rounds as she puts the guitar aside.

“Says you? Genius-maker?”

“Yeah. If I say it, it must be true. Because I know you.” Taking her hand, I lead her to the couch and she lets me sit her on my lap. Slipping my hands under her shirt to her silky bare skin, I let out a groan.

“Feels and sounds like you’re horny, hockey boy. And that works out because I just might be hungry for some of this.” She unzips my pants and reaches inside to hold my cock in her tight, hot grip. Another groan escapes me. She’s so sexy, but I want, need so much more from her.

“I brought some condoms,” I say, nibbling on her ear, dizzy with her scent, careless with my words.

She pulls my face away from her and, staring with those dangerous sparks in her eyes, she shakes her head.

“I feel like I’m in high school,” I say, testing her resolve because it’s not just about fucking her. The need to get through her barriers, to get her past her past, consumes me.

“You were a virgin in high school?” She smirks. The idea that she’s a virgin smacks me in the gut, but it makes no sense. She didn’t feel like a version and I explored her in depth.

“I’ll tell you all about my experience if you tell me all about yours.” I wait and she gives me nothing but a blank stare. I whisper, “What is it, Jazzy? What happened to you?”

“There you go, all holier than thou, thinking I have a problem,” she explodes, scrambling off my lap. “So certain that it can’t possibly be you because you’re such a fucking prize. Why wouldn’t any girl want to fuck you? Well I’ll tell you what my problem is—it’s you. Fucking you, unicorn boy, you’re the problem.”

I stand, everything in me tense, my chest painfully clenched. She steps back. Her breasts are heaving and tears are streaming and I have too many things on the tip of my tongue, needing to calm her, hoping like hell she’s full of shit and hiding how she really feels. I want to console her, but I don’t know how besides holding her and that’s the dead last thing to do now. Holding her would be like hugging an atomic bomb. Not a healthy choice for either of us.

Instead, I nod and zip my pants. Then I grab my jacket and show myself out the door without her stopping me, with the sound of her pain ringing in my ears, haunting me all the way home. She’s right. I am the problem. Because I’m pushing her. Majik’s words come back to me. Enough patience to hold off on the dessert.

Slamming the steering wheel of my old Jeep Wrangler, I hope I didn’t bruise my hand because it fucking hurts. Senseless and stupid. That’s me. I’ll need to make up for it.

And somehow, I need to get her to open up to me about her demons, about whatever it was that happened to make her so broken, so much in pain.

* * *

Hockey East Championship Game

For the next two days, focusing on organic chem and hockey takes all my energy, though Jazzy is in the back of my mind, popping to the forefront at night when I try to sleep. But I don’t see her or call or even text her, giving us both a break. All my emotions are locked in limbo and it’s not the healthiest thing to do, but I swear it’s temporary. It’s Friday morning and I have my organic chem midterm. That’s where my mind is as I walk from the arena to class when my phone pings.

A text from Jazzy is the last thing I expect. The next to last thing I expect is for her to wish me well on my fucking midterm. Shit. I stop in my tracks and let the warm surge wash through me, savoring it.

Texting her back, I thank her, probably too profusely, and ask her to come to the Hockey East championship game tonight. I want to wait for her answer, but I need to get to my exam so I slip the phone back in my pocket and book it.

By the time my classes end and I’m on my way back to the rink, I still haven’t heard from her so I call. I’m sky high about the organic chem exam. Our grades were posted within an hour outside the prof’s office and I got a fucking B+. That hum of satisfaction spreads through me, leading to Jazzy every time. It was her help that made the difference and I need to tell her. The fact that the last time I saw her I left her on a low note doesn’t even register. Her phone rings and I let out a breath, relieved that it’s not shut off. Four rings later, my jaw tenses as I reach the arena. On the fifth ring, she answers my call.

“What the fuck?”

“I got a B+ on my organic chem exam and I owe it all to you,” I say, willing her not to go dark, not to trivialize her role and her impact.