Home>>read Paper Hearts free online

Paper Hearts(3)

By:Claire Contreras


I blinked a couple of times. “Jensen Reynolds?”

Corinne stopped applying her liner mid-lip as her eyes snapped to meet mine in the mirror. “Yeah, why? Oh my God, you don’t hate him or anything, do you?”

“Hate him? No!” I said, frowning. “I’m just surprised. I mean, I’ve seen him hanging around Carlos sometimes, but I didn’t realize they were that close. I know his best friends,” I explained. “Estelle’s brother and their whole clique—that’s who he usually hangs out with.”

“Oh,” she said, back to applying her make up. “I think Estelle mentioned her brother coming by later, so I guess that explains it.”

I nodded and waited for her to leave before getting ready. I’d been seeing Jensen more and more around campus, and every time he looked over and smiled at me, my insides flipped. I couldn’t understand why I was having this sudden reaction to him, but I was, and I wasn’t thrilled about it. I’d had three cups of beer from the keg one of the guys brought before Jensen finally arrived, and when he did, Estelle kicked me—very obviously—under the glass table.

I glared at her, which made her laugh (she was already drunk).

“What?” she said, shrugging and hiding a laugh behind her hands, which were small, but she had a ring on every single finger, and that managed to actually hide her face.

“You’re an idiot,” I muttered. “Oh, look, there’s Oliver!” I said brightly and laughed when her face morphed from amusement to complete composure in less than two seconds. She turned around slowly, as nonchalantly as possible, and shot me a murderous glare when she realized I was kidding.

I shrugged. “What?”

“Not funny,” she said, trying to contain her lips from smiling.

I looked over her shoulder and saw the back door open, and laughed again when Oliver really did step in. “Okay, this is awkward, but Oliver really is here,” I said.

Estelle rolled her eyes. “Sure.”

“I’m serious,” I said, still laughing.

“I’m sure you are, Meep. I’m sure you are.”

“Man bun, check. White Nirvana shirt, check. Damn, he makes those cargo shorts look so fucking good,” I said. I could tell she was straining not to look over her shoulder, so I kept going. “Huh. He’s wearing flip-flops. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him wear flip-flops…”

“For the record, fuck you,” Estelle muttered before she finally conceded and looked over her shoulder.

“I told you!”

She smiled when she looked back. “So you did. You want to move in that general direction?”

I laughed. “Nope. I’m going to sit right here and drink my next beer.”

“You’re going to get a beer belly,” she said, making a face at my red cup.

“Well, what the hell are you drinking, Almighty One?” I asked.

“Vodka, obviously,” she said, raising her cup as she stood. “Want some?”

“Sure,” I said with a shrug and let my eyes drift over the party once more. Oliver was talking to Victor, who’d just walked in, and some girl who looked like she was ready to take her clothes off for him. I glared at her extra hard, hoping to catch her eye. Better me than Estelle—not that she cared much about the girls who flirted with them. I guess it was better that way since I seemed to feel enough rage for the both of us. I finally spotted Jensen walking outside, and stood, grabbing the cup from Estelle’s hand and pulling her along with me.

“I thought we were staying in place?” she asked. I heard the smirk in her voice but chose to ignore it.

We said hi to the guys and stood around listening to Victor talk; it seemed like he was always droning on about something. I walked toward the back door before I could give it much thought.

“Hey Jangles,” I said as I stepped outside.

He grinned, looking up from his phone as he flicked his cigarette. “What’s up, Road Runner?”

I smiled a little too widely. “Funny how you gave me the nickname and couldn’t seem to stick with it.”

Jensen shrugged. “I swim against the current.”

“Is that from one of your poems?” I asked.

“It’s not,” he said. “But…” he let the words hang as he put out the cigarette, reached in his back pocket for the torn up little black Mead notebook he carried around, and wrote something down.

“Do you buy your notebooks like that?” I asked.

“Like what?”

“All ripped up. I’ve seen you with a million different little notebooks, and they always look like they’re on the brink of falling apart,” I said, nodding at the one in his hand.