Page 18 of Trust Again

“What are you moaning about all the time?” The voice came from across the room, jarring me out of my thoughts.

I started. “Nothing. I’ve just got writer’s block.”

“What’re you working on?”

“An essay. For Professor Lambert’s course.”

I felt Sawyer’s eyes on me and looked up.

“That’s a lot of frustration for one little essay.”

“Mh-hm,” I agreed, looking back at the screen.

“You write a lot of essays,” Sawyer mused.

“Mh-hm.”

“Sometimes you blush while you’re working.”

I raised my eyes again. “Oh, yeah?”

Sawyer was sitting by the window. Her eyes sparkled. Then she stood up suddenly.

I tensed. “Don’t you dare come any closer, Sawyer Dixon,” I threatened.

Her grin turned sly. Slowly, dangerously, she edged into my half of the room before pouncing toward me and grabbing my laptop.

I shrieked and leapt up. “Give it back!”

“’With a sweeping movement he tore the clothes from my body. The buttons scattered across the cold tile floor. We stumbled into the bathroom, and I fumbled with Jasper’s belt,’” she read aloud.

I grabbed her shirt and pulled on it. “Seriously. Stop!”

“‘I couldn’t get it open, and growled in frustration. Jasper laughed softly into my neck and offered to help. My hands were shaking too much. Faster than ever before, we undressed each other, leaving a trail of clothes on the floor,’” she continued.

My cheeks were burning. Finally, I snatched Watson away from her and, sighing, dropped onto my bed and closed the screen. Then I rubbed my face.

“You’re an asshole, Sawyer,” I said, my voice shaking.

She plopped down on my desk chair and nodded. “I know. But I couldn’t stand it anymore.”

“What?”

“You’re always so secretive when you’re writing; you say you’re working on essays, but come on: I don’t know a single freshman who has to write as many ‘essays’ as you.”

“And then you set the brightness so low, your screen is practically black, and the font size so tiny you need a magnifying glass to read it. So yeah, of course that makes me curious! You’re studying creative writing. I figured you’re working on novels or poems or something like that. I just wanted to know what you’re writing. And this,” she grinned, “is better than anything I could have imagined. Who would have thought that my innocent little roommate, all prim and proper and never goes out with guys, writes erotic lit?”

All I could do was stare at her. For Sawyer, of all people, to be the first in Woodshill to know my secret was the worst possible thing that could have happened.

“Great. Let’s get started,” I said flatly, waving my hand.

“With what?”

“Making fun of me.”

Now Sawyer was the one frowning. “Why would I do that?”

Once and only once, I’d read my work aloud to someone. Nate. He’d listened. And then leaned back and let out an enormous laugh. Once he’d caught his breath again, he patted my head and asked if I really wanted to publish “this crap.”