The Sophomore (College Years 2)

Jackson’s right. Every single thing he just said is correct when it comes to my Mexican food preferences. And while I usually feel silly over how I eat chips and salsa, and that I don’t like Diet Coke like my other friends, he just made me feel as if everything I do and like is perfectly natural.

Perfectly me.

Out of nowhere, he grabs my hand and brings it up to his mouth. As in, his lips are on my knuckles, and what the hell is he doing?

“Trust me?” he asks with those blue, soulful eyes.

I nod, unable to speak. As if I’m in a trance.

“I got you, El.” He kisses my hand. “More than you know.”

His words stick with me as I listen to him order for us, and I want to pick them apart. Analyze them. Turn them over and over in my head. Have him explain to me exactly what he means by that.

But I will never ask. I’m too afraid of the truth. That he really only likes me as a friend. That he’s ‘got me’ in a friendship way and that’s it. Coming to my rescue with my car. Paying for the repairs.

He’s just being kind.

Jackson finishes paying for our order and we each grab our drinks before going outside to sit on their covered patio. Spanish music plays softly in the background and a new song starts—that one that’s on TikTok. “Telepatia.” The song about being in tune with your lover so strongly, you don’t even have to speak. It’s also about being in a long-distance relationship.

I might’ve looked up the meaning behind the lyrics a couple of days ago, curious because I really love the song.

A breeze blows through the space, making the vines covering the lattice walls rattle. A beam of sunlight shines upon Jackson, outlining his face in gold, making his hair look blonder than usual.

I stare at him, unable to look away. He’s ridiculously good looking. Painfully so. Even doing something as mundane as scrolling through his phone, which is what he’s doing currently. His hair hangs over his forehead, so long it has to be in his eyes, and I’m tempted to lean over the table and push it out of the way. Run my fingers through it. His hair is soft. I’ve only really touched it once…

“Oh my God, are you Jackson Rivers?”

We both glance over to see a group of four teenaged girls sitting at the table next to us. Their eyes are comically wide, and they all have braces on their teeth. I’d put them no older than freshmen in high school, and I’m probably pushing it. More like middle schoolers.

They’re definitely dressed better than I am. A table of really pretty, soon-to-be knock out beautiful girls. And they’re all looking at Jackson with stars in their eyes.

Jackson smiles, his expression turning bashful. “Maybe.”

One of them squeals. So loudly, every person sitting on the patio looks up and over in our direction. “OH MY GOD CAN WE TAKE A PHOTO WITH YOU?”

“Sure,” he says, rising to his feet.

The girls lose their damn minds. There is no other way to describe their reaction to finding Jackson in the same restaurant as them. They flutter around him, giggling uncontrollably as they each individually take a photo with him. They lavish on the praise, telling him how much they love his music, his lyrics, his performances, their adoring gazes never leaving his face once. As if they’re afraid if they look away, he’ll disappear.

I’m thinking they love more than his music, but they’re keeping that part quiet.

“Could you take a photo of all of us with Jackson, please?” one of the girls asks me with hope shining in her eyes.

“Of course,” I say as I stand and take the phone from her hand. I wait for them to position themselves around Jackson, noticing how they keep looking at me with frowns on their faces. As if they can’t believe their beloved idol is hanging out with a commoner like me.

Or maybe that’s my own personal complex coming out in full force.

I snap what feels like a million photos so they have plenty to choose from. I’m a girl, I know what it’s like to take group photos with a bunch of other girls. It’s so difficult to find a photo where every single person looks good.

“Thank you,” the girl says when they’re done and I hand her back her phone. “We appreciate it.”

“When are you performing next?” one of the girls asks Jackson.

He smiles. Shrugs. Playing it cool with that warm gleam in his eyes, like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be but with those girls. He knows how to put it on, making people feel alive in his presence. “Don’t have anything scheduled at the moment.”

“Too busy playing football?” She bats her eyelashes at him, trying to flirt.

It’s cute and all, but she’s wearing braces. She’s terribly young. But I guess this is good practice for her.