I hate how sharp it still is.
I hate how my body reacts everytime I remember how sexy Jamie looked that night, all covered in mud…
I hate even more that some part of me… liked it.
Fuck. No. Not going there.
I slam my tray down at my usual cafeteria table, where my friends, Nate, Carter, and the rest of the guys are already talking loudly about some party this weekend. I don’t listen; I only pretend to.
I’m halfway throughout the world when the air shifts.
A ripple.
A shift in tone.
A collective turn of heads.
It’s him.
Jamie walks into the cafeteria, tray in hand, his blonde hair messy from the wind outside, wearing one of those soft sweaters that always manage to piss me off. He’s smiling at someone. Laughing, even.
He’s been here for less than a month, and of course he already has friends.
Of course he’s liked.
Of course people gravitate to him like he’s some harmless, artsy sunshine boy.
I sneer into my drink.
He’s not sunshine.
He’s just a nightmare dressed like a daydream.
He walks past our table, heading toward an empty seat by the window. I tell myself to let him go. Ignore him. Pretend he doesn’t exist.
Except my body doesn’t listen.
I stand.
Before I know why.
Before I can stop.
And then I’m walking toward him, each step fueled by a familiar, intoxicating burn under my skin.
He sits down, tray on the table, opening his sketchbook like he always does – just a quiet student eating lunch alone.
Pathetic.
I stop right beside his table.
“So,” I say, loud enough for the people around us to hear, “you really think you belong here?”
Jamie freezes. His pencil stills, he looks up at me.
His eyes meet mine.
Annoyance.
