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But they were sent, and that was that.
It’s Tuesday after class when he texts me back. The phone chimes when I’m lying on my stomach, staring at my fingernails and trying to work up some enthusiasm for lunch.
Nothing dirty about it, West writes.
A whole sentence fragment. How about that?
Then why are you avoiding me?
I’m not. I’m busy.
That never stopped you before.
Sorry.
I wait to see if he’s going to give me a better explanation, but he doesn’t, and I’m so sick of it. I’m sick of him.
I’m sick of myself, too. How am I letting this happen? After what Nate did, I didn’t let the misery get me down. I took action. Now one kiss from West and I’m reduced to this text-groveling?
Fuck that.
Come over to my room and talk to me, I text. Right now.
I have class.
I look at the clock. Not for an hour.
Nothing for a moment. I scroll back through the blue and green bubbles of our conversation, trying to recognize myself in these demands. Trying to recognize the West who rubbed my neck in the apartment, who put his hand on my thigh and asked me what he was going to do about me. The West who said, “This is completely my fault,” right before he kissed me senseless.
Ok, he texts.
And then I wait.
Well, all right, I change into jeans and put my hair down and then I wait.
I don’t know why we have a cliché about watched pots and boiling water. Clearly there should be one about waiting for a boy you kissed while stoned on a roof to come by and explain himself.
A watched West never shows up.
But, you know, less lame.
Finally, after an eternity, he knocks twice. I open the door, and I don’t know. I don’t know. His pale eyes are West’s eyes, and his face is West’s face, and how did I not see him for nine whole days? How did I forget what he does to me?
I want to sink into him, weave our fingers together, kiss his closed eyelids, and welcome him back.
I don’t do it. I’m not completely crazy. But the wanting is there, oppressive as a hand pushing me under.
Kind of beautiful, too.
I look away, desperate to get ahold of myself. He’s wearing a coat that seems gray at first, but when you get close up you see it’s made of black and white stripes close together in a kind of chevron pattern. I can’t imagine where somebody would get a coat like that, except maybe my grandpa’s closet. It should be strange or ugly, but it’s like everything West wears—he makes it seem sexy. Like old-man coats are the thing this year.
“Nice coat. ”
He gives me that blank look. As though I’m the woman at the dining hall who swipes his ID. Some anonymous person he barely knows. “Thanks. ”
I step back. He’s never been in my room before. It’s a little surprising how small he makes it, just by walking into the middle of it.
“You want me to take that?”
