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“A bunch of the soccer players. ”
“Oh, at Bourbon House?”
“Yeah, are you going?”
“I’ll be at work. ”
“After you get off?”
He smiles. “Nah. You should go, though. ”
When Bridget suggested it, the idea filled me with panic. A crush of bodies, all those faces I would have to study for signs of judgment, pity, disgust. I can’t have fun when I’m so busy monitoring my behavior, choosing the right clothes, plastering a just-so smile on my face and watching, watching, while the men in my head tell me I look like a whore and I should pick somebody already. Take him upstairs and let him suck my tits, because that’s all a slut like me is good for.
Bridget thinks I need to get out more, pick my life back up where I left it. Otherwise, Nate wins.
I see her point. But I can’t make myself want to.
I look at the corrugated soles of West’s boots, swinging a few feet from my face. At the way
his knuckles look, folded around the edge of the table. The seam at his elbows.
If West were going to the party, I would want to.
“I might. ”
“Do you some good,” he says. “Get shit-faced, dance a little. Maybe you’d even meet somebody worth keeping you busy nights so you’re not hanging around here harassing me all the time. ”
He grins when he says it. Just kidding, Caro, that grin says. We both know you’re too fucked in the head to be hooking up with anybody.
Before I’ve even caught my breath, he’s hopped down and moved toward the sink, where he fills a bucket with soapy water so he can wipe down his countertops.
I look at my Latin book, which really is verbs, and I blink away the sting in my eyes.
Video, videre, vidi, visus. To see.
Cognosco, cognoscere, cognovi, cognotus. To understand.
Maneo, manere, mansi, mansurus. To remain.
I see what he’s doing. Every now and then, West throws some half-teasing comment out to remind me I’m not his girlfriend. He smiles as he tells me something that means, You’re not important to me. We’re not friends.
He pulls me closer with one hand and smashes an imaginary fist into my face with the other.
I know why he does it. He doesn’t want me to get close.
I don’t know why.
But I see. I understand.
I remain.
We’re a mess, West and me.
He cleans the tables off, his movements abrupt and jerky. Agitated. When he switches to dishes, he’s slamming the pans around instead of stacking them. He’s so caught up with the noise he’s making that when a figure appears at the back door, West doesn’t notice.
I do, though. I look up and see Josh there. He used to be my friend, before. Now I see him around with Nate. I think he’s going out with Sierra. He’s standing with his wallet in his hand, looking awkward.
“Hey, Caroline,” he says.
