The Sophomore (College Years 2)

“I just got home,” he says defensively, dipping down toward the suitcase and rummaging through the items in there before he pulls a small, flat brown paper bag out. He turns toward me, thrusting his hand out. “For you.”

I take the bag from him with a small smile, anticipation making me shaky. I peek inside the bag to find a smaller, black velvet drawstring bag. I pull it out and untie the string, the weight of his heavy gaze on me as I reach into the bag and pull out a delicate silver chain with a tiny charm on it.

It’s a sand dollar.

“Found it in this little shop on the Oregon coast and it made me think of you,” he says. “I hope you like it.”

“I love it,” I say softly, my heart turning over itself. He thought of me. He bought me a gift. This has to mean something. “Thank you.”

“You really like it?” He looks so eager, so hopeful. He reminds me of a little boy.

Nodding, I smile. “I do. It’s beautiful.”

“Let me help you put it on,” he says, taking the necklace from my hand and undoing the clasp. “Hold up your hair.”

I do as he says, lifting my hair up as he stands close behind me, looping the chain around my neck, his fingers fumbling with the tiny clasp and brushing against my nape. I can feel the gooseflesh rise from his touch.

I wonder if he sees it.

“There you go,” he says when he closes the clasp. I turn to face him. “It looks good on you.”

Jackson reaches out, tracing the charm, his finger coming awfully close to my chest. I hold my breath, waiting for what he might do next, but disappointment washes over me when he turns away so his back is to me.

“You’re right,” he says as he surveys his room, his hands on his hips. “I’m a fucking slob.”

“No, I shouldn’t have said that. You just got home,” I start, but he turns on me, his expression…

Angry.

“Why do you always do that?” he asks, his tone vaguely hostile.

“Do what?” I blink at him in confusion.

“Defend me. You shouldn’t.” He runs both hands through his hair, clutching the back of his head, his biceps bulging. “I’m a shit, Ellie. And I shit all over you on a daily basis.”

He does, but I don’t call him out for it. Instead, I reach up, tracing the edge of the silver sand dollar. “I love my necklace.”

“It’s not enough for what you do for me though,” he says, dropping his arms to his sides. “What do you want from me?”

Irritation floods my veins. I hate how he’s suddenly putting this on me. “I don’t know what I want.”

Liar. You know exactly what you want from him. You’re just afraid to say it out loud.

“You know,” he says, his voice low. “Admit it. What do you want from me?”

I remain quiet, refusing to let the words leave me. If I say them, that gives him the opportunity to reject me, once and for all.

And I don’t think I could handle that. Not tonight.

“Whatever it is you want, I don’t think I can give you,” he says after a long minute of my silence. “I’m a fuck-up who can’t commit.”

I roll my eyes. “I hate your excuses.”

“They’re not excuses.”

“They are.” I take a couple of steps toward him, until I’m practically standing on top of his boots. “You know what you are? A chicken shit.”

“I’m a chicken shit?” He raises a brow. “You’re the one who won’t confess your feelings.”