I’m only a few steps from him, but he closes the gap, moving in until he’s only inches away from me. My mouth goes desert dry.

I wait for him to say something, but he doesn’t. I wait for him to touch me, but he doesn’t do that, either. Instead, he just stands there, so close that I can feel his breath on my cheek. So close that I’m sure he can feel my breath on his.

And still his eyes are dark, empty, blank.

More seconds that feel like minutes tick by until finally, finally he whispers, “What’s it like?”

“What’s what like?” I’m baffled, and a little afraid that I’m setting myself up to be the punch line of some joke.

“What’s it like to just be able to let go like that?”

“Like what? My crying jag?” Embarrassment swamps me again, and I wipe at my cheeks, trying to disappear even the remnants of my tears. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for anyone to see me. I—”

“Not just that. I mean, what’s it like to be able to show what you feel and how you feel, whenever you want, without having to worry about…” He trails off.

“What?” I ask. “Without having to worry about what?”

For long seconds, he just looks at me. Then he kind of shakes his head and says, “Never mind.” He walks past me, opens the door to the room that lays just beyond the alcove, and walks inside.

I stare after him, not sure what I’m supposed to do. It feels like our conversation is over, like he just dismissed me, but he left his door open in what looks like an invitation.

I stand there for another minute or so, undecided, before he finally sticks his head back out the door. “Coming?” he asks.

I follow him inside—of course I do. But I’m completely unprepared for what I find when I walk into the room, a room I can’t help thinking of as my own private wonderland.

Books are everywhere, stacked haphazardly on nearly every available surface.

There are three guitars in the corner, along with a drum kit that has my mouth watering and my fingers itching to touch it. To play it, like I used to play mine back when I still had one.

Back when I still had a lot of things.

In the center of the room is a giant black leather couch, covered with piles of thick, soft pillows that all but beg to be napped on.

I want to touch everything, want to run my hands over the drum kit just so I can feel its soul. I have just enough self-control left not to follow my impulses, but it’s hard. So hard that I can’t help but tuck my hands in my blazer pockets, just to be on the safe side.

Because I’ve only just now realized that this is Jaxon’s dorm room, and to say it’s unexpected is pretty much the understatement of the century.

Jaxon seems completely uninterested in his surroundings, which seems bizarre to me even though I know it’s because this is his stuff. He sees and touches and uses it every day. But there’s a part of me that still wants to know how he can just ignore the pile of art books by the couch or the giant purple crystal on his desk. It’s the same part of me all but screaming that, no matter what Jaxon thinks, I’m nowhere near cool enough to be in here with him.

Since he’s not talking, I turn to look at the art on the wall, big, wild paintings with bold colors and strokes that excite all kinds of ideas inside me. And hanging next to his desk—even more unbelievably—is a small pencil sketch of a woman with wild hair and sly eyes, dressed in a voluminous kimono.

I recognize it, or at least I think I do, so I walk closer, trying to get a better look. And sure enough—

“This is a Klimt!” I tell him.

“Yes,” he affirms.

“That wasn’t a question.” It’s under glass, so I reach out and tap the artist’s signature in the bottom right corner. “This is an original Klimt, not a reproduction.”

This time he doesn’t say anything, not even yes.

“So you’re just going to stand there with your hands in your pockets?” I demand. “You’re not even going to answer me?”

“You just told me you weren’t asking questions.”

“I’m not. But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to hear the story.”

He shrugs. “There’s no story.”

“You have an original Klimt hanging next to your desk. Believe me, there’s a story there.” My hands are shaking as I trace the lines through the glass once again. I’ve never been this close to one of his pieces before.

“I liked it. It reminded me of someone. I bought it.”

“That’s it? That’s your story?” I stare at him incredulously.

“I told you there wasn’t a story. You insisted there was.” He cocks his head to the side, watches me through narrowed eyes. “Did you want me to lie?”

“I want you to…” I shake my head, blow out another long breath. “I don’t know what I want you to do.”

At that, he lets out a small laugh—the very first sign of emotion he’s shown since that one frantic are you okay in the art room. “I know the feeling.”

He’s halfway across the room, and there’s a part of me that wishes he were closer. That wishes we were touching right now.

Of course, there’s another part of me that’s still terrified of touching him, even more terrified of having him touch me. Being in his room is too much. Looking at him worry his lower lip in the first show of nerves I’ve ever seen from him is too much.

Being touched by him, held by him, kissed by him, would be so, so, so too much that I’m afraid I’ll implode at the first brush of his lips against mine. Afraid I’ll just burn up where I’m standing. No warning, no chance to stop it. Just a brush of his hand against mine and poof, I’m a goner. I swear it almost happened when he carried me back to my room the other night, and that was before he sent me waffles and walked me to class and charmed me with his text messages. Way before I saw this place.

I wonder if he’s afraid of the same thing, because instead of answering, he turns around and enters what I assume is his bedroom. At least until he realizes I’m still staring at the Klimt—and every other fabulous thing in the room—to be following him.

He kind of rolls his eyes, but then he comes back and gently herds me toward his bedroom, all without laying a finger on me.

“Come on. There’s something I want you to see.”

I follow him without question. With Flint earlier, I had moments of concern, of worry that it wasn’t safe to be alone with him. Everything inside me warns that Jaxon is a million times more dangerous than Flint, and still I have not an ounce of trepidation when it comes to being alone in his bedroom with him. When it comes to being anywhere, or doing anything, with him.

I don’t know if that makes me foolish or a good judge of character. Not that it really matters, because it is what it is.

Jaxon stops near the edge of his bed and picks up the heavy red blanket folded across the edge of it. Then he reaches into his top dresser drawer and pulls out a pair of faux fur–lined gloves and tosses them to me. “Put those on and come on.”

“Come on where?” I ask, baffled. But I do as he asks and slide my hands into the gloves.

He opens the window, and frigid air rushes in.

“You can’t be serious. No way am I going out there. I’ll freeze.”

He looks over his shoulder at me and winks. He winks.

“What was that?” I demand. “Since when do you wink?”

He doesn’t answer beyond a quick twist of his lips. And then climbs out the window and drops three feet onto the parapet just below the tower.

I should ignore him, should simply turn around and walk out of this room, away from any boy who thinks I’m dumb enough to hang out on an Alaskan roof in November with nothing more than a blazer to keep me warm. That’s what I should do.

Of course, just because I should do it doesn’t mean I will.

Because, apparently, when I’m with this boy, I lose all common sense. And part of losing that common sense means doing exactly what I shouldn’t—in this case, following Jaxon straight out the window and onto the parapet.

33

Madonna’s

Not the Only One

with a Lucky Star

The second I drop down beside him—or should I say the second he helps me down, being super careful of my still tender ankle—Jaxon wraps the blanket around me, head and all, so that only my eyes stick out. And I have to say, I’m not sure what the blanket is made of, but the moment it’s wrapped around me, I stop shivering. I’m not exactly warm, but I’m definitely not going to be dying of hypothermia anytime soon, either.

“What about you?” I ask when I realize he’s wearing only his hoodie. It’s a heavy hoodie, the same one he was wearing when I saw him outside yesterday with Lia, but still, nowhere near enough protection for the weather. “We can share the blanket.”

I break off when he laughs. “I’m fine. You don’t need to worry about me.”

“Of course I’m going to worry about you. The weather is frigid.”

He shrugs. “I’m used to it.”

“That’s it. I have to ask.”

Everything about him turns wary. “Ask what?”

“Are you an alien?”

Both his brows go up this time, all the way to his hairline. “Excuse me?”

“Are. You. An. Alien? I can’t believe it’s that shocking of a question. I mean, look at you.” I wave an arm up and down under the blanket, my way of encompassing everything that is Jaxon in one fell swoop.

“I can’t look at myself.” For the first time, he sounds amused.

“You know what I mean.”

“I really don’t.” He leans down so there’s only a couple of inches separating our faces. “You’re going to have to explain it to me.”

“Like you don’t already know you’re pretty much the hottest person alive.”