Swipe Right

7| Just like old times

I sneak through Jax's front door, past the living room where his mom is watching CNN, and up the staircase, following the noise. I get to his bedroom–third door on the left–and see moonlight spilling in through the balcony windows.

Jax is sat in the corner on his drums, thrashing away on the cymbals. I take it as an opportunity to study his bedroom without him glaring at me. Sheets of music cover the walls, and the far end of the room is reserved for all his countless guitars. The rest of the room is spotless, not a single thing out of place.

"Still abnormally tidy, I see."

He turns slightly, drumsticks mid-air. "Don't you knock?" 

I sink back into the folds of his bed. In some ways, it feels like a part of me never left this bedroom. "Like you'd have heard it even if I did. It's anti-social to be playing drums at this time, you know."

For a moment, Jax just looks at me with this really far-off look. I can tell this is as weird for him as it is for me, like seeing me sitting here has taken him back to a distant memory.

After an awkward silence, he mutters something about going downstairs to make some sandwiches. I decide to do a little more investigating of his room–for curiosity's sake.

Everything is pretty much the same as it used to be, except for a few minor changes: his blue spaceship rug has been replaced with a plain green one, and his shelves are now bursting with body sprays and grooming tools he never needed in middle school. In the small drawer under his desk is a worn, crinkled polaroid of Jennifer Harland. 

Jen came into the picture around the eleventh grade. One day, I saw Jax walking the hallways with his arm around her shoulder, engrossed in conversation. He walked right past me as though I were a ghost, and then he smiled at her. Even Jax, the most un-romantic, sarcastic boy in school had managed to find love and I hadn't. Further proof the world is unjust. 

Rumor has it, Jennifer dumped him to pursue something with Heath, although I don't know the specifics. All I know is that Jax came in on the last day of school sporting a pretty big bruise on his knuckles. People talked about him for weeks after that. 

I pull open another drawer and notice something: a thin, gift-wrapped box sat neatly in the corner. I reach inside to study it further, but Jax's thunderous footsteps are back. 

The door swings open and I jump back guiltily. Jax looks at his desk first, then at his computer and his undisturbed closet. I force out a breath, praying he doesn't notice the half-open drawer.

Carefully, he places the plate of sandwiches on the table before stepping toward me. "What are you doing?" 

I'm not exactly small at 5'6, but Jax towers over me like the BFG–though not so friendly, in his case. I square my shoulders, trying not to feel intimidated. "Nothing."

He tilts his head. "I've known you long enough to know when you're lying."

"I'm not lying." I side-step away from him and pick up the sandwich, a crisp BLT on sourdough bread–my favorite.

Jax watches me demolish it with a smirk on his lips. I ignore him and get out my phone, turning on Diana Ross' 'Aint No Mountain High Enough'. He gives me a look like I'm just so predictable, but I don't care. 

I'm not ashamed to admit that my obsession with Diana is more like a security blanket. It reminds me of a happier time, back when my parents loved one another and when Jax and I were still friends–back when life was simple. 

Jax studies me from across the bed. I can tell he's uncomfortable, because his body is rigid and he keeps tapping his foot. For some reason, the fact that I'm making him uncomfortable brings a smile to my face.