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I need him, too. Want him, too. But it’s not fair of him to give me this and nothing else. It’s not enough.
“I can’t,” he repeats.
“I don’t even know what you’re talking about. ” I don’t sound so harsh anymore. I sound gentle. I feel gentle, because, God, I care about him, even though it’s wrong and dumb. He’s hurting, and I care. “I can’t know, because you don’t tell me anything. ”
“I know. I’m sorry. ”
Now I push his hands off me and grab his head, the way he did mine. I want him to see me. I want him to hear, to understand. I sink my fingers into his hair, hold him there. Make him listen. “You could tell me,” I say. “There isn’t anything you couldn’t tell me. God, anything—you know I’m on your side. And if you just told me …” I trail off, thinking what that would be like.
I should keep silent, but there’s too much alcohol in me, too much openness not to say all of this.
I look in his eyes.
“If you just told me, then we could get into that bed and crawl under the covers. We could take everything off, and we could really be together. Deep and then deeper, just like you said. You know how it would be, West. We both know. ”
“Incredible,” he says.
I dip my thumb down, run it over the arch of his eyebrow. “Yeah. Incredible. ”
I put my arms around him, gather him close, tuck my head against his neck, because I think he needs this. I’m pretty sure I’m the only person in Iowa who’s ever hugged him, and in Oregon, who knows? Maybe no one hugs him but me.
I hold him tight, and he’s shaking. Actually shaking.
I feel sorry for him. That’s a new thing. I think this is the first time since I met him that I didn’t feel like West had all the power, held all the cards. The first time I’ve ever believed he’s maybe even more screwed up than I am.
I kiss his jaw. I stroke his back one more time, because it’s broad and warm and strong, and the truth is I can’t help it. I never could.
But after all that, I let go. Take a step back. Meet his eyes and lift my chin.
“It’s deeper or nothing,” I tell him. “So make up your mind. ”
This time, I’m the one who walks away.
FEBRUARY
West
January ended. February came.
I quit selling we
ed and got rid of my stash. Without Caroline around, the bakery was dead. I worked hard, studied while the bread rose, listened to the buzzing fluorescents.
It was boring. Boring and miserable.
Three weeks passed when I didn’t see Caroline, and, even so, she was woven through my life. My memories, my dreams, my thoughts. It turns out you can’t cut someone out of your heart just by wanting to.
I didn’t want to hurt her.
I didn’t want to hand her the power to wreck me.
I didn’t want to fuck her and walk away like it meant nothing, like she meant nothing.
I just wanted to be with her. All the time. Every way. Even though I was leaving, and even though I didn’t deserve her.
“Deeper or nothing”—that’s what she said before she walked out of my apartment and out of my life.
I was too scared to pick. Too scared to follow her outside, tell her what she wanted to know, go down on my knees and beg if I had to.
