Page 54 of Wrong For Me

“You’re the one who had to go and question my music choices!” she shoots back. But she doesn’t sound annoyed. She kind of sounds like she’s having as much fun as I am.

“Well, don’t let me stop you from enjoying your watered-down Metallica.”

She actually sticks out her tongue at me. It should be ridiculous for a grown woman to stick out her tongue at a colleague in the middle of their grad school office, but somehow, on Rose, it just looks really damn adorable.

We both settle back into our work, the soft strains of violin rock music blanketing the room. I have to admit, the music gives off a chill vibe, and I can’t say I hate it. In fact, by the time the string quartet has moved on to an old Nirvana cover, I’m kind of digging it. This might just be the perfect music to study to.

Not that I would ever tell Rose that in a million years.

I don’t know how long we sit like that, working without speaking while her playlist fills the silence. Eventually the string quartet moves on to a Ransom cover, and I can’t help but look up, wondering how Rose will react.

I’m not sure quite what I expect—for her to feel awkward or embarrassed about it, maybe? To shut down the way she had when her dad showed up at my bar? Instead, a soft smile settles on her face. And a few seconds later, she starts to hum along.

Damn, she’s gorgeous. That’s not news to me, of course, but sometimes the pure power of her beauty just smacks me over the head, leaving me off-balance and winded. This is one of those times. Rose sitting so close to me in the tiny office, twirling a pencil lazily between her fingers while she reads, reaching up every so often to run her fingers through her hair. Humming along to the soft music.

She must notice I’m staring because her eyes suddenly dart up to meet mine. She blushes slightly, a sheepish smile turning up the corners of her lips. “It’s probably lame, huh? Humming along to my own father?” She shrugs, self-conscious. “I just really love this song.”

“This is “Meeting You,” right?”

She nods. “My uncles wrote it for me right after I was born. It’s always been my favorite.”

Holyshit. This song was written more than twenty years ago and it still gets air time. It’s been covered by half a dozen bands. It’s basically a rock standard at this point. I’m not a Ransom expert, or anything, but I would bet this song is one of their best-selling hits. And here’s Rose, just casually mentioning they wrote it about her.

If there was ever any indication that the two of us exist in very different worlds, it should be this. I remember hearing this song on the radio when my mom and I drove from our shitty trailer park to a long-term, rundown hotel two states away. And Rose has been hearing it her entire life, from the band themselves, knowing it’s about her.

I wait for the familiar rush of jealousy and annoyance to hit me. Wait to remember just how awful I’d felt when her dad’s lawyer showed up with that NDA. Wait for the wave of anger at this girl sitting across from me.

But it doesn’t come. Rose seems so vulnerable, sitting here, letting me in on this fact of her family’s history. She’s watching me carefully, like she’s waiting to see what I’m going to do with the information. Like she’s expecting me to use it to hurt her in some way.

I don’t have any friends at this school.

That’s what she said when I mentioned the girls who flocked to her out in the quad. I think of the girls sitting up front at orientation, the way they’d all looked at her, talked about her, and how she’d clearly been uncomfortable.

Have other people used her family to hurt her?

Realizing she’s still staring at me, and I haven’t given her a response, I clear my throat. “It was always one of my favorites, too,” I admit.

Because it’s true. Because my mom used to sing it to me, too, under much different circumstances, I’m sure. I can still close my eyes and hear the sound of her raspy alto in my ear, murmuring the lyrics about everything changing the moment she held me. A far cry from the actual creators of the song serenading Rose as a child, but still. Hearing those words her uncles wrote in my mom’s voice always made me feel safe, and loved.

The silence of the moment is broken when the cell phone on Rose’s desk lets out a shrill ring. She jumps in her chair before fumbling for it, knocking over her water bottle and several notebooks before managing to get her fingers around it.

I add the wordclumsyto the list of attributes I’m beginning to form about Rose Ransome in my head. Nerdy about music. Blushes when she’s nervous. Always chooses spicy food even when she knows it will be too much for her. Likes to read fantasy novels.

Kisses me like she needs my lips to breathe.

Scratch that one. Way too far, brain.

“Speaking of family,” Rose mutters, looking at the message on her screen. “This is my cousin reminding me that I promised to take her shopping tonight.” She blinks up at me. “I can’t believe it’s already after three! That afternoon flew by!”

Ithadflown by. With my belly full, work to do, the soft sound of music surrounding me, and the vision of Rose Ransome just a few feet away, the hours had seemed to pass in a flash.

But now that flash is wrapping up, because Rose is already standing to throw things into her bag. “Are you heading out soon?” she asks.

“Uh…” I pull the bus route site up again. The first bus comes every twenty minutes until six, so I have some time. Unfortunately, Rose steps towards the door behind me before I close the window, giving her a full view of the bus schedule.

“Are you taking the bus?” she asks.

I expect to hear horror in her voice—surely no one she associates with would be caught dead using public transportation—but all that comes through is a mild interest.