The Hookup Situation (Colorado Springs University #2)

Chapter 11

ELEVEN

JACKSON

My stomach still has butterflies fluttering around in it when I leave the theater that night. Preston actually came. I wasn’t sure if he would or not, but seeing him made my whole night. And it made performing when I’m not exactly feeling my best absolutely worth it.

It’s late, and I’m so fucking exhausted. I’m gonna go home, take some more zinc and vitamin C, and not wake up until I absolutely have to in order to get to class on time.

I’m unlocking the door to the apartment when my phone dings. I step inside and close the door behind me, toss my keys on the kitchen counter and slide off my shoes before I take my phone out to see who the message is from. I’m kinda expecting it to be Preston but it’s not. It’s my mom. I swipe to open it, my heart stuttering. Maybe my parents actually remembered the play and are asking how it went, or maybe they want to congratulate me?

My stomach drops though, and I’m slammed back into reality when I see the message.

Mom: Hey, not sure when you’re getting in for Thanksgiving, but be sure and get a ride from the airport. Dad and I will be busy all week.

My chest constricts, and I must be at the end of myself because I feel hot tears stinging at the corners of my eyes. Jesus Christ, I shouldn’t be surprised. I’m not. I was expecting it. But it still hurts every damn time. She’s not even asking how I am and we haven’t talked in months other than the last time I texted her. And they don’t even know when I’m coming home because I never did book a flight, but they are sure they’ll be too damn busy to pick me up? Just like every other year, of course. I’m so sick of expecting them to change and start giving a shit about me.

Christ, the plan to stay here by myself is sounding more and more appealing. I’ll just stay in my pajamas, eat tons of unhealthy snacks and binge-watch shitty TV.

I trudge into my room as my eyes blur, and fall onto the mattress, my phone beside me as I wipe at the tears sliding down my cheeks. I want to fucking scream, because I’m so done not mattering to the people who are supposed to care more for me than anyone else.

This should be one of the best nights of my life, but instead of being out celebrating with my fellow cast members, or even my friends, I’m stuck at home, feeling shittier and shittier, just hoping I can make it through the next few performances before this cold knocks me out. My body is shaking with rage and grief. Both at my parents for not being who I need them to be, and at myself for holding out hope that someday things would change, and they would see me.

It’s taken a long time, but I’m finally accepting that they don’t care and they never will. They’ll never prioritize me, they’ll never check in, they’ll never give a damn if I am home for the holidays or not. They’ll never call or text on my birthday. They’ll never send me care packages like my friends get. And letting that sink in, letting myself feel that, hurts like hell.

I’m gasping for air, my lungs seizing, as my heart rate picks up and I start to sweat. Then I’m coughing even as I continue to struggle for breath.

I sit, trying to catch my breath, but it doesn’t work and I’m shaking even harder now.

I hear a knock on my door and my roommate calling my name, but I can’t answer. That’s when the door bursts open and Jeremy and Colby are running in.

“Shit, he’s having a panic attack,” Jeremy deduces, coming around the bed to kneel in front of me while Colby takes a seat on my bed, naked ass and all.

“I can’t —-” I gasp, gripping my throat, feeling like I’m suffocating as even more tears slide down my cheeks. I cough again.

“Yes, you can,” Jeremy tells me. “You’re okay. You’re safe.”

Fuck, I’ve never experienced this before and it’s terrifying.

“Breathe,” Colby instructs, rubbing my back with his big hand. “You’re okay.”

Jeremy takes a deep breath in, holds for a few seconds, and lets it out. “Do it with me,” he says.

Another deep breath, hold, let it out.

Another. And another.

“You’re okay,” Colby says again. “I’ll be right back.”

I keep breathing with Jeremy, focusing on him.

“Here,” Colby says, returning and handing me a few SourPatch Kids . “Suck on these. It will help.”

I’m skeptical, but I shove them in my mouth and keep breathing. Somehow the sour candy does seem to be working, along with the breathing, and Jeremy’s hands on my knees, Colby’s on my back rubbing in small circles.

“You’re okay,” Jeremy says again, and I can see the relief in his blue eyes as my breathing returns to normal.

Shit. I’ve never had that happen before, and I have never cried like that before, either. Whatever I’ve been feeling all these years, I’ve been bottling it up, and it’s like a tidal wave sweeping over me now.

“You wanna talk about it?” Jeremy asks.

I shake my head. “No, I’m okay. Thank you, though. Really. I’m kinda embarrassed.” My cheeks flush and I wipe my eyes.

Colby shakes his head. “Don’t be. Lots of people have anxiety or panic attacks. I do. That’s what these are for.” He holds up the candy. “Shifts the body's attention to the sour taste and engages the parasympathetic nervous system.”

I eye him.

“Helps you calm down,” he says, and I nod.

“You sure you’re okay?” Jeremy asks. “You wanna drink some water, maybe? Call someone. Sometimes it helps to just talk.”

“I’ll get water,” Colby says, and dashes away again.

“Thank you,” I tell Jeremy. “I didn’t even realize you guys could hear me. Sorry if I woke you up or anything.”

“Don’t worry about it. My little brother has panic attacks so I’m used to them. You sounded really upset. We heard you crying.”

My flush deepens. “Yeah, just stressed I guess. Long week.”

I don’t think he buys it, but he doesn’t press me. Colby returns with the water and I assure them both that I’m okay, though I’m still feeling a bit shaky and upset. It gets them to leave though, and I fall back on my bed again, thoroughly horrified at what just happened, despite how kind my roommates were about the whole thing. We’ve lived together for a while and we get along fine, but we’re not close. Sobbing and shaking, and gasping for air in front of them was mortifying.

My chest heaves and a few more tears trickle out. I have a feeling this isn’t going to be the last time I unload like this, but for now it’s over.

I reach for my phone to try and distract myself from the ache in my chest. It feels like there’s thousands of tiny pin pricks all over my skin and I’m sick to my stomach, so I know I can’t sleep.

But instead of scrolling through social media I find myself calling the only person I want to talk to right now.

I’m not sure he’ll even pick up because it’s so late, but he answers on the first ring. His gentle voice over the phone is like a balm to my aching heart. “Hey, Tinkerbell, I thought you would be asleep by now. You’re supposed to be resting that gorgeous voice. What’s up?”

I just had a panic attack. It scared the shit out of me. I’m lonely and I need to hear your voice. My parents don’t give a shit if I come home for Thanksgiving or not. In fact, they probably would rather I didn’t, but they don’t want to tell me that because that would be admitting they don’t care. I wish you could touch me right now, I think it would help.

I want to say all of that, but I can’t, so instead I say, “Nothing, I uh, I just wanted to say thank you again for coming tonight.” My voice is hoarse, but I’ll blame it on the cold I’m getting and not admit I’ve been sobbing.

“Yeah, of course.” There’s a pause and then, “You sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah, just can’t sleep,” I murmur. “I’m sorry. I should go. I didn’t mean to bother you.”

“Hey, wait,” he says. “Don’t go. I can’t sleep either. And I never did get to tell you how much I like the sound of your voice over the phone.”

I chuckle a little, and a small amount of that overwhelming grief dissipates. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he says, those damned butterflies returning. “Sexy, and soothing. So, talk to me. Let me fall asleep to your voice.”

I rest my arm under my head and stare at the ceiling. I wonder if he knows I feel the exact same way about his voice. “What should we talk about?”

“Tell me about you.”

“What about me?”

“Anything. Tell me anything about you that I don’t already know.”

I chuckle again. “Like what?”

“Like, what’s your favorite color?”

“Mmm, I don’t know,” I tease, “that’s kinda personal.”

He laughs. “Mine’s blue.”

“Red,” I offer, softly.

“Like my shirt tonight?”

Another chuckle. “Yeah, just like that. Red with holes in it.”

His laugh is heartier this time and it fills me with warmth and comfort. “Favorite ice cream?”

“Mint Chocolate Chip. You?”

“Cookie Dough, but with like, mostly cookie dough chunks and a little bit of ice cream.”

“Ahh, you want some ice cream with your cookie dough.”

“Exactly. Now you go.”

I blow out a breath. “Favorite movie?”

“ Remember the Titans .”

“Ooh, you like the classics. Makes sense, what with you being so old and all.”

“Shut up,” he volleys. “Can I guess yours?”

“Sure.”

“ Lord of the Rings .”

“But which Lord of the Rings? ”

“Oh, god. Um…. Two Towers ?”

I grin because he’s spot on. “Good job.”

He gives a little “Whoo!” that I find way too cute, and I’m grinning.

“There’s one more, though, and it’s not The Rocky Horror Picture Show .”

“Ooh, tell me.”

“ Dirty Dancing .”

“I’ve never seen that.”

“Oh my god, who raised you?”

He laughs. “I’ll watch it, I promise.” And for some reason, that means a lot to me. Especially because I know he will.

“But I think you have to take back your little barb about me liking old movies because I’m old, because that movie is way more of a classic than Remember the Titans .”

I laugh. “Yeah, you’re right.”

“Okay, now I’ll go. Favorite tradition? Or childhood memory?”

My chest tightens and I swallow. “My parents aren’t really big on tradition.” Other than working holidays. I do have one childhood memory that stands out, though that’s actually a result of my parents being workaholics, too. “In elementary school I had a friend who would invite me to go to the county fair with them every year, and on camping trips, and that was fun. What about you?”

When he speaks I can tell how excited he is, and I’m smiling despite the twinge of jealousy I feel. “We have this hill by our house that we go to and sled down every year. It’s like, freaking huge, and we all have to convince my mom to go down it because she never wants to.” He chuckles. “And then we come home and make hot chocolate and eat Mom’s cookies, and my brothers and I would play video games or board games. It was just really cozy. It’s not the same without Phoenix but we still try to enjoy it every year.”

“That sounds really nice,” I admit. “I’m sure Phoenix would want you to keep that tradition alive.”

“Yeah, I’m sure he would, too.”

“What was he like? Phoenix?”

He takes a breath. “He was a caretaker, and a giver. Always looking out for me and Paris, even though he was the one with epilepsy. He was an athlete, too. I was good at sports, but Phoenix, man, he was on a whole other level. Never let his disability control him. He was tough, a fighter, but really kind and gentle, too. Paris is the sarcastic smart mouth and academic of the family. Kid gets good grades without even trying. It’s disgusting, and so unfair.”

I laugh a little. “And what does that make you, if he’s the academic and Phoenix was the athlete?”

“I’m the pretty one,” he says, and I laugh, mostly because I know there’s so much more to him than his looks. He embodies all of the things he’s telling me his brothers do. He’s kind, intelligent, funny, and talented. He might not breeze through school like his brother but he has to be smart to be going into pre-med.

We talk for over an hour, sharing more of our favorites. We talk more about him and his family. He asks what plays I was in in junior high and high school and it’s nice to share those experiences, too. And I realize I do have more fond memories of my childhood, even if they don't involve my parents.

He asks when I started singing and acting and I tell him about putting on shows for my stuffed animals as a kid, which he tells me is adorable.

“I should let you go,” he says eventually, his voice sleepy and soft. It makes me want to kiss his perfect lips.

“Yeah, I guess so,” I murmur.

He sighs. “God, you really do sound so good over the phone.”

“Thanks for talking, beautiful.”

“Any time. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, doll.”

PRESTON

Me: What's your apartment number?

Tinkerbell: Why?

Me: I have something for you

Tinkerbell: What is it?

Me: Tell me your apartment number and find out

It’s been four days since the opening night of The Rocky Horror Picture Show , and since we stayed up way too late talking. It’s been even longer since we fucked. And even though I could have easily gone out and found someone else to fuck me, I didn’t want to. Not even a little bit. I don’t want anyone else’s hands or lips on me. I don’t want anyone else’s dick inside me. I don’t want to come for anyone but him.

We’ve texted or talked after the show every night since. It’s not sex, but honestly I think I enjoy it just as much, getting to know him. I’ve learned he likes classical music and jazz, that he’s obsessed with chocolate, loves thunderstorms, his favorite snacks include popcorn, Cheetos, and peanut butter and chocolate chips by the spoonful, and somehow I find that strangely endearing. I’ve learned that he prefers Star Wars to Star Trek, which I decide to forgive him for. I’ve also learned to my utter horror that he has never been sledding, or ice skating. Hell he’s never even built a snowman, so I vow to make sure at least one of those things happens before the snow melts.

Not until he’s feeling better, though. Jackson made it through the performances, but he pushed himself to do it, and he’s been under the weather for the last couple of days. We’ve taken to texting more and talking less because his throat is sore and he says he’s losing his voice, and the more he talks the more he coughs. I know he missed classes today to try and rest and I’m glad he did because he needed it.

He seemed so sad on the phone the first night we talked, and I hope that I’ve helped at least a little. The idea of him hurting guts me, and I can tell he doesn’t like talking about his family, so I’ve avoided asking him questions about his childhood or his parents.

Tinkerbell: 204

I grin and make my way up the stairs of the building I’ve been standing just inside for the past several minutes, waiting for him to respond. When I reach 204 I knock and hear a yelp coming from the inside that makes me laugh.

Then the door swings open and Jackson is standing there wrapped in a blanket over top red flannel pajama pants and a white T-shirt. On his feet are Darth Vader slippers. His nose is red and chapped and his skin is even more pale than usual. His raven hair is wild, and I decide I like it. The strangest thing, though, is seeing him without his jewelry and makeup. Like, none of it. Not even his nose ring is in. He looks so different, but still good. Well, I mean, I bet he would look good if he wasn’t scowling at me.

“What?” he asks, and his voice sounds so much like a dying frog that I can’t help laughing.

“Did I scare you?”

“Shut up.” It would be more menacing if he wasn’t squeaking it.

I laugh again and he slams the door in my face. I laugh harder. When I’ve calmed down a bit I knock again and the door flies open a second time.

“I brought you soup, and stuff to make tea.” I hold up the offerings and he blinks, then steps aside and lets me enter. “I won’t stay if you don’t want me to,” I tell him, making my way into the kitchen. “I just wanted to make sure you were taken care of.”

I’ve just gotten the soup in the microwave and am filling the tea kettle up with water when a very big, very attractive, very naked man enters the kitchen, and I almost drop the tea kettle.

“Uh, hello,” I say, glancing from him to Jackson, who is sitting on the sofa, curled up in his blanket. “You must not be that sick,” I tell Jackson.

I’m surprised how quickly Jackson shakes his head.

“I’m his roommate,” Naked Guy says, and holds out a hand. “Colby.”

“Oh.” I hold the full kettle in one hand and shake his hand with the other.

“I generally don’t wander around like this when company is here, but I didn’t know you were coming. I’ll go put something on.”

I blink. “Yeah, okay.”

“Your roommate, huh?” I say to Jackson and he nods. I find myself smiling and shaking my head. “He gay?”

He nods again.

“You want peppermint or chamomile?” I ask him, holding up the different packets, and he points. “Peppermint it is.”

I put the kettle on the stove and get the soup from the microwave, bringing it over to him. He moves his feet for me and I sit down on the couch, handing him the bowl and spoon. “It’s my mom’s recipe. Chicken noodle. It’s pretty good. She made it for me all the time when I was sick.”

He gives a soft smile and takes a bite. His eyes widen. I laugh.

“Good?”

He nods, then pauses. “You believe me don’t you?” he croaks. “About Colby? I’m not, I mean, we haven’t, ever. He’s really just my roommate.”

I’m kind of touched he’s so worried. Especially since we’re not exclusive, and while I don’t like the idea of him fucking other guys, I can’t get upset with him for it if he does. Hell, as far as I know he’s been fucking other guys this whole time. But the concern on his face tells me differently.

“I believe you,” I tell him. “It was just a surprise, but I don’t honestly think you’re doing someone in your condition. If you were, though, it’s fine right? We’re just casual.”

His eyes dim a bit, and he nods. God, this man confuses me. His words say he wants casual, but everything else about him, the way he looks at me, the way he touches me, says something different.

“So, once I get you your tea, I can skedaddle,” I tell him. “Or, I can stay and keep you company, and we can watch Dirty Dancing. ”

He grins and nods, then takes another bite of soup.

“You know,” I say, looking at him again. “I love all of your jewelry and makeup. Like really love it. But you look good without it, too, just in case no one has ever told you that. You’re really beautiful either way.”

“I am not beautiful right now,” he rasps, then coughs.

“You are to me.” I smile at the slightly stunned look on his face and then stand at the sound of the kettle whistling.

I prepare his tea and bring it over, setting it in front of him on the coffee table.

“Thank you,” he whispers.

I sit back and take his feet on my lap while I turn on the movie.

About an hour in both of our phones vibrate, one after the other. We check them at the same time and then look at each other.

“You just get a text from Rory about a party before Thanksgiving break?” I ask him and he nods. “I just got one from Parker.” I love the idea of going to a party with our friends, getting to know his friends a bit better, but Jackson has said before he doesn't want anyone to know about us, so we’d have to pretend to be nothing more than casual acquaintances, and that sounds kind of impossible. How do I go an entire evening around him and not touch him, or look at him the way I know I will?

“We can manage it,” he says, like it’s no big deal and will be a cinch to keep himself away from me all night long, which yeah, that kinda hurts. “We’ll just have to be careful.”

I think about not going so I don’t have to worry about it, but I really want to go. It sounds like fun. I haven’t seen Parker outside of class in a while, and the last time he sent a text, asking the guys if they wanted to hang out, I said no because I was meeting up with Jackson, so I text him back, letting him know I’ll be there.

We keep watching the movie and I forget all about the party when I look at Jackson, asleep on the couch as the credits roll. I’ve never seen him asleep before and he looks peaceful, and maybe even a little fragile, but still beautiful.

I move slowly so as not to wake him, then cover him with the blanket again, before pressing a kiss to his tousled hair.

He’s snoring softly when I leave.