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.

"Why are you smiling like that?" he asks.

"No reason. Why are you always so suspicious?"

"Because I don't trust you," he says.

"You used to." The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them. Bravely, I maintain eye contact. 

He shrugs slightly, his gaze intense. "Things change." 

I clench my jaw. It pisses me off that he acts like I somehow wronged him. He's the one who made new friends and never looked back. How can he possibly hate me?

"So do people," I say pointedly.  

His eyes continue to burn through mine. Reluctantly, I breathe in a steady lungful of mint and pinewood–his signature smell.

I think the pinewood cologne used to belong to his father. Sometimes, I'd come over to play for an afternoon and I'd smell it on the pillows, like Jax went around spraying it on the furniture.  

He takes the empty plate from my hands and places it on the desk. After a few seconds of watching him clench his knuckles, I let out a sigh.

"Just go and wash it up," I say. "I know you're dying to."

Jax pretends to not know what I'm talking about. He gets it from his mother, this unnatural hatred of mess. One time, we were watching some Disney movie in the living room and I accidentally spilled some juice on the carpet. His mom came running in with a cloth and some super-strength bleach like she could just smell the mess.

"It can wait," Jax says.  

I throw my hands up. "Just wash the damn plate." 

His knuckles unclench. I watch as the color returns to his fingers. "Only because you won't shut up about it." He grabs the plate faster than humanly possible and disappears downstairs, returning several minutes later without it.

I lean back against his pillow feeling oddly satisfied. "The equilibrium has been restored." 

He takes a seat next to me, his body rigid and legs pressed together, like he's scared to take up too much space. "It'll never be restored with you here. Your fingers are probably sticky."

I give him a devious grin before reaching out, intent on pressing my fingers to his face. He dodges my hand, grabbing my arm before pinning it against his lap. I shove my other hand under his armpit, and he clamps down so hard that my fingers get stuck. 

A thick, hearty laugh suddenly erupts from his throat, like he can no longer contain it. The sound fills the room, deep and comforting, like a piece of my past I didn't know I was missing.

I continue to tickle him, desperate to hear more. His smile is so bright, so all-consuming, that for a second, all I can see are white teeth and dimples. It is wonderful. 

Eventually, we call a truce and stop to catch our breath. The remnants of Jax's smile still plays on his lips, so I take a mental picture before it disappears. 

"So, you took my advice then," he says, his smile fading.  "Who's the guy?" 

I tug on my sweater, suddenly feeling nostalgic. Jax and I haven't laughed like this since the summer before High School.  "His name is Chris," I say. "He's eighteen, and he's just started working as a personal trainer."

"Sounds thrilling," Jax says. "When's the date?" 

"Friday night." I lean back against the headrest. "He seems really nice. Exactly my type."

"Everyone's your type. Show me his profile."

I get out my phone and click on the app before handing it over. "Are you saying I don't have standards?"

He smiles slightly. "I wasn't going to, but since you mention it."

He proceeds to study Chris's profile with the utmost precision.  I watch him intently, noting the way his dark lashes curl into his brow bone. Girls used to make fun of him for it back in middle school: I bet it drives them crazy now.

"He loves traveling and going out," Jax says, looking unimpressed. "Don't most people?"

"Well, that's two things we'll have in common."

He shakes his head before turning to look at me. "A guy's profile says a lot about him, Nyla. For example, Chris here has got six pictures and four of them are shirtless. What do you think that tells you?"

I prop myself up with my elbows. "That he's got a good body?"

"It tells you that he's superficial."

I raise an eyebrow. "Are you jealous of his six-pack, Mr. Mechanic?" 

He scoffs loudly. "Hardly. I have my own six-pack, thanks."

I involuntarily glance at his t-shirt, trying to see through the material. He probably does have a six-pack, for all I know. I chastise myself for wanting to see it.

"My eyes are up here, Satori."

My cheeks burn with heat. When I meet Jax's gaze, I see his eyes have taken on a mischievous glint. Every so often, there are moments where I look at him and I wonder what life would have been like if we'd never even met each other.

I imagine all of the pain I'd have saved myself from, all of the hurt. And then I think about the times he made me laugh, or the times he wiped my tears. To this day, I still can't decide whether it is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. 

I lean in closer, subtly breathing in pinewood. "What else does his profile tell you?" 

Jax drags his gaze away to focus on my phone. "He's hardly put any effort into his description. Generic line about traveling and food. He's not looking for anything serious. He's looking for a hookup." 

I furrow my eyebrows. "You can tell all that just by looking at his profile?" 

He nods before putting the phone down between us. "Where's the date, anyway?"

"The Pancake Club. You seem very interested. Why is that?"

"I'm dropping you off. I'd like to know when and where." His tone of indifference is contradicted by the weird intensity in his eyes.

I sit up straighter, studying his face with the utmost precision. "Have you got any dates yet?"

His jaw twitches. I find myself smiling as I wait for his response, already knowing the answer.  "No, I haven't." 

I bite my cheek, making a mental note in my head. 1-0 to me. I am so going to win this.

A/N
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