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“Was it cold or warm?”
“You were there. Don’t you know?”
“You told me a story about climbing a tree when you were eleven. Do you remember that?”
He snorts. “I could barely climb a ladder when I was eleven—I don’t think I was climbing any trees. Why are you asking me this?”
“But you remember being there, right?”
“Sure. There was sand. There was water. It was a beach.”
I don’t understand. He has some memory. But not all of it.
I decide to try a lie.
“You were so nice to me when I was stung by that jellyfish. God, that hurt. But I liked the way you carried me back to the car.”
“I wasn’t going to leave you there!” he says. “You’re easy to carry.”
He wasn’t there. He was there—but he wasn’t there.
I am so confused.
His hand is brushing over my knee, up my leg.
“I can carry you somewhere now, if you want.”
He’s coming in for a kiss. His lips are against mine. His body is starting to press.
This is not what I want, and he has no idea.
And I don’t know how to explain, so I kiss him back.
Acceleration. His hand going under my shirt. His tongue in my mouth. The cigarette taste of him. The sweat and grit on his hand from the controller.
I know it’s really bad to pull away. That it will hurt him if I pull away. But I pull away. Not far. But enough.
He pulls back in reaction. “What? I figure, if you came all this way…”
“I can’t,” I tell him. “I’ve got too much going on in my head. I’m not in the mood.”
He moves his thumb slowly against my breast. “I believe I know ways to put you in the mood.”
Usually my body reaches out for this.
“Stop,” I say.
He’s not a jerk. When I say stop, he stops. But he doesn’t look happy about it.
“Are you getting tired of me?” he asks.
He wants it to sound like he’s joking. And I could point out that if he’d stayed sober on Saturday night, we could have done something then. But is that really true? After dancing with Nathan, would I really have had sex with Justin?
I know what I’m supposed to say, and I say it: “No, I could never get tired of you.” I kiss him again, but it’s clearly a goodbye kiss. “I’m tired, yes. But not of you.”
I stand up, and he doesn’t get up to walk me out. Instead, he grabs the controller, unpausing his game.
I’ve hurt him. I didn’t mean to, but I have.
