White

That Shirt Right There, Boyfriend Material

I'm not a stalker.

I'm really not. I would swear on it, but I don't swear much. Except the occasional fuck yous every few months...weeks...days...hours...minutes-you get it, but that's not the point.

The point is, it wasn't my fault he was playing so beautifully. Or that my feet had propelled themselves to the door of the music room, which was slightly ajar. And it definitely wasn't my fault that I had a thing for boys that played instruments (don't tell my boyfriend).

So, I ended up there, staring at the dark haired boy playing Ed Sheeran's Afire Love. Then he started singing. You could have stuffed a Bentley in my mouth when it popped open. If I thought his playing was great then his singing was life in itself.

Yeah, I'm also a poet.

His voice flowed out in waves that caressed my insides, an unexpectedly smooth baritone.

And my father,

And all of my family,

Rise from their seats to sing,

Hallelujah.

After Afire Love, he went into a smooth rendition of Take It Back. And I was still staring at him. Because it's not every day you find a BOY, that LIKES ED SHEERAN'S MUSIC, PLAYING THE GUITAR AND SINGING. Sadly, my sight was limited to a head of tousled black hair and the nape of an ivory skinned neck since I was peeking through the tiny slit between the door and the doorjamb.

Now I don't ever wanna be perfect,

Cuz I'm a singer that you never wanna see shirtless.

And I accept the fact that someone's got-

Maybe he noticed I was standing at the door. Or maybe he'd forgotten the lyrics. Either way, I didn't wait to find out. As soon as he stopped singing I hightailed out of there like my feet were on fire.

I only stopped running when I had turned the corner at the end of the long hallway. My non-stalker senses had stopped tingling by then and I allowed myself to believe that he wasn't running after me. Contrary to what he said, I wouldn't have minded seeing him shirtless.

Girl, my subconscious quipped at me, you should've been all up on that, honey. That was a fine specimen right there, yesiree. That shirt he was wearing, I seen that before, that some boyfriend material right there.

My IPhone buzzed in my hand.

CARTERISKING994: Meet me in the parking lot. I'll drive u home.

I sighed. It was more of a sigh of frustration than it was of pity. I couldn't place why, but my heart just didn't sing the way it used to when Carter texted me.

My subconscious tipped her cats eye specs down and smiled at me from above the lenses. Talk about tough love, honey.

I texted Lara, my best friend, that I'd be getting a ride home from Carter, and that she could leave without me. She texted me back almost immediately.

TheOriginalLaraCroft: B careful, he might drug u and try 2 cop a feel. If he tries anything call me kay?

Lara didn't like Carter much.

As I walked to the parking lot, I thought about the mysterious dark-haired, Ed Sheeran lover. My mind had a thing about tabbing people. It would sort them according to hair color, hair type, clothing, height shape, intelligence, posture, voice. And mysterious dark haired boy just didn't register.

Pushing open the stupidly heavy double doors I turned my face towards the sun.

See what I did there?

I had a thing about sunlight. I don't know why, but the sun lifted my spirit.

No sensible rea-sun, it just did.

Okay, okay, I'm done with the sun puns.

I strolled towards my hot, Abercrombie and Fitch underwear worthy boyfriend.  Shaggy, brown hair that fell around his head in waves, broad linebacker shoulders and a six pack that'd make a washboard look like a marshmallow. If you'd ever happen to be talking about Carter FitzGerald, hot would be an understatement.

But you wouldn't happen to be talking about him because he's mine.

"Hey babe." He said, when I'd reached him.

"Hi." I tilted my face up to kiss him, but he turned his face at the last second. Weird.

"Um... we need to talk."

Son of a motherfucking bitch.