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That dick.
When he sets me down, I bump into the wall. He closes the door and locks it.
He’s so dead.
“You Neanderthal. You fucking—fucking—Piltdown Man. How dare you? How dare you?”
He’s over by his desk, pulling his wallet out and setting it in the drawer. Taking off his jacket. Unzipping his hoodie. He opens a drawer and pulls out a string of condoms and puts one in his pocket.
“What’s that for?”
“Don’t worry about it. ”
“Don’t worry? How about you stop acting like an entitled caveman who can just kiss me when he wants to, throw me over his shoulder and carry me into his room and get out a condom, like that’s ever going to happen, who can just phone-sex me when he wants to get off and throw me away when he’s all done? How about—”
“Caroline. ” He sits down on the bed. His voice is slow and soothing. “We got things to talk about. Could you maybe give it five minutes without the screeching?”
“I’m not screeching!”
But it comes out pretty screechy.
I turn around and face the wall, covering my face with my hands because it hurts too much to look at him.
I need to be angry, because if I stop being angry, all that’s left is disappointment and wanting, and I can’t afford either of them anymore. They cost too much. They’ve been taking too much out of me for too long.
His bedsprings squeak. Even that seems poignant, a sound I remember from being in his bed, his hands on me, his mouth. My eyes flood with tears, and I’m so disappointed with myself.
“Caroline. ”
His voice is right behind me now. I’ve heard it like that, my name low and intimate, right before he comes. It’s more than I can bear—the way my heart lifts, my body responds, even as I’m trying to locate my anger and push back the tears. “Don’t. ”
But he doesn’t listen. He puts one hand against the wall and the other at the small of my back. He leans in, his mouth by my ear, the heat of his body behind me close enough to feel, close enough to make me yearn, close enough to draw me back in if I let it, if I break, if I’m weak.
“Please,” he says.
There’s a knock on the door. “You okay, Caroline?”
Author: Robin York
Quinn’s voice. I can imagine her and Krishna and Bridget, lined up out there. Worried about me.
I think about the party tonight, the dancing, the feeling of being surrounded by people who love me.
I’m not weak. I’m a little drunk—getting more sober by the second—but I’m strong.
I draw in a deep breath and find that strength. Wrap it around me.
Then I take my hands away from my face and turn to face West. “I’m fine,” I call, loud enough for them to hear me. “He can have ten minutes. ”
“You sure?” Krishna asks.
“Go watch your fucking movie,” West says.
After a moment, the volume on the TV goes up.
Then we’re just looking at each other, West and me. His face so perfectly not-perfect. That wide, smart-ass mouth that can make me feel electric, make me feel like I’m drowning, make me feel like I could live on him and him alone.
His mouth is a lie.
