Author's note:

Jason was always a curious character for me, and I wanted to explore him for once. It says, at the top, that he kind of won't stop falling in love with every girl she meets. This is not the case. As I assume you know, he's got to lick his wounds over Macy, and standing up Auden at her senior prom (weird name, by-the-by) really isn't acceptable. I'm adding that part in there anyway. This is a "crossover" of sorts, as it continues over time and involves protagonists and plot development from both books. Also, the title is unintentional. I call this a bit of a "one-shot", if we're stretching terms a bit. And the name is not an intentional pun, if misinterpreted. A lot of Sarah Dessen's works revolve around giving people another try.

It's a bit of an ongoing hobby, of sorts. It's just for fun, not very serious, and only going to be updated occadionally.

Copyright disclaimer:

Nothing written is official. This is merely a fan's work for fans. I'm merely mucking about with the characters.

My parents wouldn't approve of my behaviour. I don't either, which is why I leave it to the last thing at night.

Ever since I came back, I've wondered. Wondered what went wrong on my end, what I missed.

So I'd been a little inconsiderate. So what? The bigger picture was that we'd been together for eighteen months, and happy. I know she'd been happy, I know it in the way she'd smiled gratefully at my small gestures I always used to convey my feelings for her, in the way she'd always helped me, in the way I more often than not helped her, and for that she'd been grateful, I know it. And if she seemed discontent, she still told me she was fine, and I could see that she was. She was tough.

I'd been grateful, too. Grateful and pleased and satisfied and happy. My parents were more than content with the break up, but I had some memories I wasn't willing to part with.

She was gorgeous, for starters. And sweet. But not a blonde, not like her athletics friends, even though we'd initially bonded over an edition of Macbeth in our English class she hadn't understood. She'd tried, to her credit. She'd just been incapable of simplifying it in her head. All she'd needed was a small hand-barely anything-to clear it all up. It was a messy play, after all. It had been tough. It didn't mean she'd been worthless at it.

Dad didn't agree with that. Shakespeare, he'd said when I told him about it over dinner, shaking his head, it's not supposed to be easy, Jason. Make sure you'll do better than that ditz, alright?

On the other end of our relationship was the last time we'd seen eye-to-eye, when she'd seen me off at the airport. We'd double checked everything before leaving, always the image of organisation, and arrived early, as ever the image of punctuality. I remembered Mum turning around, on the drive, and asking, So, Macy. What are you going to do until August without Jason?

I don't know.

So small, so hopeless, with that undertone of plaintiveness I associated with abandoned children. I watched Dad raise an eyebrow at me, plainly hiding the thoughts needy girlfriend in his eyes. By then, I'd gotten used to it. She had to do something, a reason our relationship worked out so well. Me, I could only ever see her haunted eyes and feel that familiar protectiveness, thinking, She saw her dad die. The first thing I thought when I saw her. Imagining the situation if I'd been the one witnessing Dad's or Mum's or even Macy's death. My method would be to do something as well, so I tried to provide that something.

Then, afterwards, we'd said goodbye at the gate. She'd held me tight, and I felt how vulnerable she felt, and I felt, oddly, a surge of pity and didn't disentangle myself. I hadn't really wanted to either.

I'm going to miss you, she'd said to me, and the loneliness of her voice ricocheted through my head, jarring. I was used to something brief, not so sentimental. So much.

It's only eight weeks, I'd replied, trying to comfort her. It wasn't just my presence she was talking about, I felt that. It was the absence of someone close to her. I kissed her on the forehead, then, before overthinking it, on her soft lips. Briefly, because that was instilled in me. I'll email you, I'd promised, then kissed her on the forehead again, and we both stepped back, and that was it. Our last kiss.

She behaved normally, but I felt the light presence of her haunted eyes as I headed off. But I didn't look back. I think that was my greatest mistake. That's why I wanted to make things right when I got back. I'd wanted one more shot, just one more shot, to make it right again. I'd wanted to look back and toss her an intoxicatingly confident smile to spur her on. But she didn't give me that shot. Instead, I'd been dumped over some juvenile delinquent.

If I'd looked back, maybe I'd seen how truly lost she'd been. It reminded me of another Shakespearean work, Troilus and Cressida. I have forgot my father;/ I know no touch of consanguinity,/ No kin, no love, no blood, no souls so near me/ As the sweet Troilus.

How theatrical, I said to myself now. Macy would never be such a drama queen.

It wasn't a romance set during the Trojan war written by a poet well known for his drivelling sentiments. It was just a story about a boy who'd been a little inconsiderate and his ex who refused to give him another shot.

And all I ever wanted was one more shot.