Two Years

Jade Chapter 2

I felt invincible. I was good at this. I had this. This was a piece of cake. First day jitters were unheard of.

Amy said if I thought I was fearless I really would be, and she was right. First day of class was always nerve-wracking, but not this time. I really did feel invincible—until his unruly hair caught my eye, but that had happened before and it never really was. It was a little bump in my otherwise fine day, but nothing I couldn't handle. But then his deep blue eyes stood out in the sea of eyes, and it threw me off my game.

It can't be.

But there he was with that dark hair and those ocean deep eyes with that look that always escaped them...and I was lost. It was the guy with the unorthodox hair, and the dark clothes, and the shuffle when he walked, and the old converse shoes, and the blue socks, and those eyes. Angry and deep as the ocean—the same guy that was overlooked for his style, for his hair, his socks, his music taste—the same one that took my breath away.

Because it was him.

I couldn't believe my eyes, but I couldn't deny it when I saw him. The soft curl of his dark hair was impossible to confuse, and even harder to ignore. When he looked at me, and his stormy blue eyes met mine, my heart stopped beating, and I knew it was really him. It was undeniably him.

Two years, and four-hundred miles ago.

I remembered the day I first saw him, not met him, because that hadn't happened. I'd never met him. I'd merely seen him, shared space with him, but never truly met him. It had been my first day as a freshman in college, living in a town I never grew to love, alone and completely forlorn. I had been trying to be different then, trying to be grown-up, but not knowing how. It hadn't worked.

The first thing that caught my attention back then was his hair. Always his hair, unruly and dark, and absolutely perfect. The messy dark curls that framed his face took my breath away, the very curls that would later haunt my dreams.

He would haunt my dreams. I never understood why, but he stayed with me, in my mind, in my heart. He was beautiful the way statues are beautiful. Beautifully crafted, beautifully created, but they weren't real—just like he wasn't.

Unattainable, so very unattainable. When I saw his eyes back then, stormy and deep and blue, I understood why eyes are the windows to our souls, because I could see his. I knew at least that, if nothing else about him, was real. I saw his soul, felt it. And it was pure, and honest and beautiful.

And without thinking too hard about it, I'd sat in front of him.

Two years, and four-hundred miles ago.

"We match," I said. He stared at me, reticent. He almost looked angry, but I was fresh, I was new, I was excited to live and learn, to experience and explore. I pointed at his cobalt blue knee high socks and then to my own cobalt blue fishnets. He'd just blinked and returned to his drawing, a Black Flag logo all over his notebook. Thin, and thick; small, and big; blue and black, but only Black Flag. He never did talk to me in all the time I'd sat in front of him, hoping to know more about him, learn who he was...anything. I smiled the stupid smile that always comes when I'm nervous about anything or anyone, and never talked to him again. Never wasted my breath on him.

But I always sat in front of him, with my back just slightly to the wall, just slightly turned to the guy behind me. Just so I could steal glances at his beautifully complicated face and those dark curls I loved. Even if I could never admit it, because I didn't want to be weak, I didn't want to be exposed.

Yet, here we were. Again. Two years, and four-hundred miles later.

A thousand heartbreaks, and a million stolen glances later.

I could feel him staring at me now as I walked in, feeling his heavy gaze on me like I had all that time ago, wondering if he recognized me.

Then I did it again.

I couldn't help it.

I talked to him.

I asked him a stupid question, and when he didn't answer I laughed at myself and prepared to find a seat away from him, so far away I'd forget who he was and how I felt, and how he'd stolen my heartbeat all that time ago. And maybe it hurt because he didn't remember me at all, but maybe he did. And that hurt more. My mind was running away with me when he finally spoke.

Mumbled, really.

His rich voice shocked me to my core. I had to close my eyes to truly appreciate it. I'd heard it before, years ago, but never addressed to me, and the full effect was overwhelming. So, without really wanting to—and not really knowing how to avoid it—I did it again, and sat next to him, somehow wanting—needing—to be close to him.

He looked the same now as he did then. Black t-shirt, black jeans instead of the long shorts I'd first seen him in, and black shoes. Even the same beautiful thick hair framed his face. The only thing missing were his cobalt blue socks.

I pushed my hair behind my ear, trying to steal a glance at him, but he caught me. Feeling like I had to, I did it once again, as if being repeatedly ignored didn't hurt me. As if I had a heart to gamble this time.

I introduced myself, and tried to apologize for staring at him, but the right words didn't come out. Thinking it was safe and unpretentious, I stretched out my hand, and I fully expected him to ignore me like he had two years ago, but he took it. His hand enveloped mine, and electricity passed between us, and I hoped he couldn't tell I was nervous as hell, and my heart began beating again, fast and hard.

I wondered if he felt the same wonderful world-shattering energy I did.

My breath caught and I tried my best to hide it. His touch was addictive, just as I knew it would be. Life-changing.

"Lawrence," he said, and it was all he said. Short, efficient, and almost annoyed. Just like before. I'd learn to hold back someday—not now, obviously, but someday.

Preservation. I was terrible at it.

I blinked back my embarrassment and promised myself I would never talk to him again, addictive as his touch may be, heartwarming as his voice may be, exciting as being near him was. I had learned the hard way with him, and it really sucked being ignored. It was even worse I perpetually caused occasions to be ignored.

Class started and I can't say I remember much of that, because I was berating myself for being so weak, so stubborn. But I promised myself I would remember the next. I promised myself the coldness that crawled up my spine would dissipate, if not dissolve.

Next class I'd pay so much attention, I'd be able to recite it verbatim.

The boy with the beautiful hair and stormy eyes didn't have a hold on me.

My heart beat on its own.

And the boy sitting next to me would become a ghost again. Because that's all he'd ever been.

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