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He said that. Two nights ago. I didn’t make it up.
When he brushes past, he smells like wool and peppermint, and he doesn’t even look at my face.
I follow him down the steps.
He’s put on a hat I’ve never seen before, black-and-dark-gray stripes, thick and thin. I look at the spot where it meets the back of his neck. My fingers itch to touch him there.
His mood keeps me from doing it. His mood is a real thing dividing the space between us, as solid as granite.
Go away, his mood says, and it reminds me of the other times he’s been like this. Weeks ago now.
I’d almost forgotten. All the rules we’ve had between us—I guess they were suspended over the break. Our talk of touching, of wanting, the dirty thoughts we exchanged, made me forget.
I’m not sure what the rules are now, but I know that whatever they are, they’re fully in effect.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. ”
“Really? You seem kind of distant. ”
He turns partway toward me, hands shoved deep in his pockets. For an instant, his whole face is a wince. “I guess I don’t feel much like talking. ”
You felt like talking the other night.
You talked me into two orgasms before we got off the phone.
I heard you come.
What the hell is wrong with you?
I should pick one of these things and say it, probably. But I just spent a month at home not saying any of the things I really felt. West was the only person I opened up to, and even with him, I censored myself.
My throat is tight.
We come to an intersection. The pile of iced-over snow reaches my waist, but there’s a cut shoveled into it, and we pass through. I crunch over frozen gray slush in the road. The restaurant is half a block up on the right.
It’s getting dark out, even though it’s only four o’clock. The world feels dim and threatening. A car goes by, and the crunching noise its tires make sounds like a threat.
It’s cold. So cold.
“What are you doing later?”
“I’m on until late. ”
He doesn’t say when he’ll be home. He doesn’t invite me over.
That empty thing he does with his face—it’s a trick. An act he’s figured out how to do. It drives me crazy, because I don’t know how to hide myself like that, and I haven’t done anything to deserve his retreat.
It makes me think of that day in the library when I tried to slap him.
The way he was that day—that’s West. That was me, too. Both of us there that afternoon, angry, intense, impulsive, real. Whereas this—this is just West being an asshole.
“What’s your class schedule this semester?”
Another shrug. “I’d have to check. I haven’t memorized it. ”
There’s a slight sneer in that sentence. I haven’t memorized it, like I’m sure you have.
