I don't see him until we're back at school. I don't think about him until we're back at school. Then, all of a sudden, I realise that maybe I should've. I don't know what to think now.
I see him at breakfast, cold and beautiful. He looks at me, falters, then looks away. I can't blame him.
I must be delusional. Why would I kiss Jasper, heartbreaker and homewrecker of the school, playboy extraordinaire, the oldest of all old money, someone who has everything I don't? Why, why, why?
"I think I'm going crazy," I tell Seung-jun. He doesn't know. Nobody does.
Seung-jun laughs. "You trying to tell me you weren't already?"
I stumble through the day halfheartedly. My grades are already awful; I doubt this semester will be different. I just can't stop thinking about how stupid I am. What would Sparky say? He'd tell me that I'm getting attached and being dumb. Jasper is the kind of person who doesn't get attached. He dates a girl, drops them, moves on. Kiss and tell. Why can't I move on?
I finally finish the school day and feel like I've just ran a marathon. I haven't seen him all day and yet he lives rent-free in my head. I really need to get a different hobby.
I'm heading down a hallway. It's snowing outside—snow season is nearly over, but winter storms are still going strong. Arbourne has invested heavily in heating systems so it's not even cold inside. The real annoyance is when you have to go outside and sprint towards your dorms. I haven't put my books and papers in my backpack yet, but I really should so they don't get snowed on.
Suddenly, a hand jerks my shoulder around. I barely register that it's Jasper before he slams me against the wall, pinning my body there with his own.
Holy shit, I think.
"What were you playing at?" Jasper demands, his breath harsh in my ear. "New Year's. What the hell was that?"
I'm trying to come up with a response but he's so close and so are his lips and I just can't. My brain stutters and whirs. I try not to think about the way I can feel his chest rise and fall with hitched breaths. I try not to think about his eyes, blue and piercing and beautiful. I try not to think about how we're in a public hallway. On second thought, maybe I should think about that. "What?" I manage.
"You know damn well what you did," he hisses.
"What, kiss you?"
"Why did you do it?" he asks, his voice flat and cold.
I furrow my brows and don't answer. What does he want me to say?
"Did you want to assure that I wouldn't tell others about your dirty little secret? Did you want to be able to tell your friends, I kissed Jasper Rochester? Was it another one of your games, another one of your lies? Were you trying to play me—"
"Play you?" I exclaim, finally finding my voice. I lean forward slightly, moving to push him off, and he jerks away like he's been burned by fire. "Play you? You're Jasper Rochester. You think I could play you?"
"You could do anything, lie about anything—"
"What else is there for me to lie about? How could I play you? Aren't you supposed to be Jasper I-date-a-new-girl-every-two-weeks Rochester? You're insane if you think I was trying to do anything!"
"Then why did you do it?"
I stare at him, stricken. I take a breath to calm down a little. My heart is racing. A little from surprise, a little from his sudden proximity to me. I can still remember the way his hand felt on my back, the way his heartbeat felt. "Is it so strange," I say slowly, "to think that I might have just wanted to kiss you?"
Jasper's eyes dart between me and my lips. Then he presses me up against the wall and we're kissing. This time it feels like liquid fire, setting every inch of my skin ablaze. His heartbeat is erratic. So is mine. I can feel the cold stone wall digging into my back, the pain overwhelmed by his body flush against mine.
"You're meant to hate me," he whispers.
"I—"
"Don't answer that."
Then his mouth is on mine again, beautiful and harsh and brand new.
"I should hate you," he tells me when he pulls away. "I should hate you and your lies, and I shouldn't touch you like this and I shouldn't come any closer than I already have."
"There are many things we shouldn't do," I murmur, half to myself.
Suddenly, there's the distant echo of footsteps. Jasper freezes. I shove him away, sending him down the hall. "Go," I hiss. By some unspoken consensus, we turn and head in opposite directions.
I dart into the restroom, feeling unlike myself. My hair is messy, my lips kissed red and cheeks flushed. I look like a mess. I feel like a mess. What's wrong with me? I should be better than this but Jasper, Jasper just makes me feel ... different.
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We don't so much as speak for the next week, but sometimes, when we're alone, his hands will slide around my neck and his lips will be on mine. He's half-obsessed, half-addicted, and so am I. I still don't know what the hell we're doing.
I try not to let it bother me, but it bothers me. Jasper is everything and I'm nothing. He's descended from a duke, he's the oldest of all old money, he's beautiful and cruel and effortlessly confident. And I'm confident, but not effortlessly. Not at all.
I'm basically best friends with Teddy at this point. I guess sharing intimate secrets does bring you closer. It slots into place perfectly. He seems to have accepted me as part of our little club. Teddy's the kind of person who doesn't care who you are, only who your parents are. All the better for my purposes.
One weekend, nearly everyone is gone. Es is off at some political conference; Noelise is fly-fishing with her father; everyone from our friend group is off in other countries. I take the opportunity to get some studying done. I don't know why I keep trying, but it's not like I have anything else to do. School's frankly terrible, apart from the social aspect.
I spend the entire morning in the library struggling through my English homework. Theatre is basically the only class I'm not failing at this point, which is really sad. It's begun to snow weakly, white flurries falling past the high library windows. When it comes to lunchtime, I gather my things and begin the trek back to Manners.
As I round the bend, I nearly crash into someone, stopping myself just in time. It's ... Jasper. His golden hair is flecked with snow, and his icy blue eyes match the sky. He seems surprised to see me.
"What are you doing here?" I ask. Jasper lives, like, ten minutes away. He always goes home for the weekends.
"I forgot something in the dorms," he says, holding up a folder full of papers, then hesitates. "I was going back."
"Oh."
I move to go past him, but he blocks my path. I look up at him. He seems to debate internally before speaking. "You should come."
I blink. "What?"
"You aren't doing anything. Come over."
He begins to head the other way, clearly expecting me to follow. He stops, waiting for me.
"I like you, but I'm not going to fuck you, you know," I call to him.
He scoffs. For a moment, the old Jasper is back—insultingly arrogant, brilliantly confident. "I wasn't suggesting that. I'm just bored. Come over."
Against my better judgement, I follow him. He's not driving the red car this time. It's a vintage Rolls Royce, cream and brown, that I'm surprised hasn't collapsed under the weight of the snow piling up on it at this point. Jasper brushes the snow off the roof, opening the passenger door for me.
How chivalrous. I wonder what he thinks he's doing. I wonder what I'm doing.
Jasper gets in the driver's side, starting the ignition. The tires grate and jolt over the ground, picking up speed. The inside of the car is warm and roomy. As we drive out of the school, I glance over at him. His eyes are focused on the road. He's running his tongue over his teeth. He does that when he's—nervous, angry, I don't know. Maybe both?
"I thought you could never get bored," I say sarcastically, breaking the silence as we cruise out onto the open roads.
"I'm bored all the time. Why do you think I do half the things I do?"
I raise an eyebrow. "Which half am I on?"
Silence.
"Good to know," I mutter. Honestly, what did I expect? Jasper's Jasper. He does what he wants and doesn't give a shit about the consequences. Or the broken hearts.
"My parents aren't home," he says instead. "Do you know how to play pool?"
"Is that what you do on the weekends? Play pool with whoever's around?"
"No. Most of the time, I—"
He breaks off. I glance over. "What?" I prompt.
"Nevermind," he says.
"No, really. Tell me."
He shrugs. "I don't know what I was going to say. I do whatever I want."
"Like? I'm very curious how the great Jasper Rochester spends his free time," I say mockingly.
"You're not funny."
"You're not answering the question."
"Drive to Manchester and back. Go out on a boat. Go skydiving. I don't know. Play tennis. Lots of things. What do you do? Try to salvage your shitty grades?"
"I visit the homes of boys like you and rob them blind. You should turn around now, in case you don't want to be left penniless and unable to play pool because you can't afford the chalk," I say.
"I told you, I don't play pool."
His tone is peculiar. When I look over, I can see him pressing his mouth in a firm line to keep from smiling. Huh.
Jasper drives the car into the garage. I don't exactly remember it, but it feels familiar. It makes sense, given the story Jasper told me about what I did while I was drunk. I see the red car in question. My fingertips itch. I kind of want to go and give it a spin while I'm sober to see how it does, but I shove that notion down.
"The other half," Jasper says as he hangs up the keys.
I glance at him. "What?"
He doesn't meet my eyes. "You're not one of the things I do just because I'm bored."
I don't know how to respond to that. I have the sudden urge to press him up against the wall and kiss him, but I keep my gaze on the wall and restrain myself. "Wow, thanks," I say dryly.
"Not much gratitude," he comments.
"For basic human decency?"
"I'm decent," he says as we enter his house. "I'm very kind. I even opened your car door for you."
"Decent would be doing that for everyone."
"I thought girls liked to feel special."
"Cut it out," I say, suddenly feeling like I might break something if I don't say this sooner. We stop in the middle of a hallway filled with baroque furniture and old portraits. Snow hits the windows lining one side; a warm yellow glow comes from the lamps on the other. "You asked me what I'm playing at. Well I'm going to ask you that too. You date girls and drop them and date more girls. I don't want to be just another one of your girlfriends. You're a fucking asshole, do you know that? What are you trying to do, finding me every day and—and—"
I feel myself choking. Don't cry, I think. Why should I cry? That's stupid. Stupid, idiotic, foolish. He's just a boy. No crying over boys. Boys are meant to ruin your lipstick, not your mascara. Though Jasper has done plenty of both. "What are we?" I ask, meeting his gaze.
His eyes are disarmingly wide, like an open book. There's something hungry, something needy in them.
"You're not like them," he says, his voice low and raspy.
"Really," I say, staring up at him. "Don't you say this to every next girl? Why else would they date you?"
"They date me because I'm Jasper Rochester," he says fiercely, moving closer. "They like to play at being the girlfriend of the Rochester heir and every time, it's always when will you take me to your house, or when will you take me on your plane, or when can I drive one of your cars. Do you know why I hated you?"
"You still do," I say.
"I hated you because you were just like the rest of them. Shallow. I thought you wanted diamonds and private flights to Ibiza and everything else that everyone in that awful school wants, but you're different."
"I'm not," I snap, suddenly feeling scared. Scared that he thinks I'm someone I'm not again. "I'm not, alright? I like diamonds and private flights to Ibiza, so if you think I'm some sort of selfless—"
"Everyone likes diamonds and private flights to Ibiza," he scoffs, "even me. But you didn't see me as just a key to debutante balls and status and everything like that. You might've hated me—"
"I still do."
"You don't mean that. You might've hated me, but at least you hated me because I was Jasper, and not Jasper Rochester."
He reaches out and cups a hand to my cheek, running a thumb absentmindedly over my lips.
"So what?" I ask. It takes all I have to keep my voice from shaking. I want to run a hand through his hair, kiss him until his lips are red and flushed, tell him everything that's running through my mind right now. I want him more than I should, so badly that I can hardly breathe. "What do you want?"
"You. I don't care if you're a liar, I don't care," he says, bringing his face closer to mine. "I don't care. All I want is you."
He kisses me, slow and careful, and I let him.
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