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I wait for West’s mouth to make words I’m never going to hear.
I’ll miss you.
I care about you.
I don’t want you going out with that guy, because I want you with me. I want us to be more than this.
I want to say, Tell me everything, West. Please.
But in the morning I’m going to drive home and see my father. Whatever it is West might have to say, tonight isn’t the right night for him to say it, and I’m not the right person for him to say it to.
It’s not just him. It’s me. I’m not brave enough.
My fingertips skate over the shapes of his face. The arch of his eyebrow and the scar that bisects it. The curve of his ear. The lush fullness of his mouth.
I want to breathe in when he exhales, rest against his body, wrap my legs around his waist, and take him inside me.
I don’t know how to get rid of this.
I don’t know how to give him up.
The oven timer beeps. West steps away from me and turns it off. Opens the door. Takes out the bread.
The whole rest of the night, he keeps his distance.
In the morning, I get in my car and put sixty miles between us, but it’s not far enough.
I don’t know how far I’d have to go for it to be far enough.
THANKSGIVING BREAK
West
Don’t get involved, I told myself in the beginning. She’s not your problem.
But I was already involved, even then. By Thanksgiving, I was so involved with Caroline, I almost couldn’t stand to see her.
Everything I told her was a lie.
We weren’t going to be friends, I’d promised. But what else do you call it when you text somebody a million times a day and look forward to seeing them even though you just fucking saw them?
Author: Robin York
What do you call it when you know when somebody has class and what material their next test is about, and they know when you’re going to be working and how many hours it is since you slept, so they bring you all your favorite junk food to help keep you going?
Caroline and I were friends.
I was lying about it.
I told her I wasn’t going to touch her, but I touched her every chance I got. Brushed my arm against hers. Leaned into her with my knee. When she turned her back, I checked out her ass and thought about how it would feel in my hands. When she leaned over the table, kneading, I looked down her shirt.
I’d find reasons to get inside her personal space. I’d watch her skin get pink and patchy, and I’d love it.
I wasn’t any kind of saint. Even though I couldn’t have her, I did my best to make her want me. I made sure she was thinking about me, and I didn’t stop when I found out she wanted to ask out some guy she’d met playing rugby.
I ramped it up.
I treated her like she belonged to me, even though I wouldn’t have her and I wouldn’t let her have me, either.
