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“What about?”
“She wouldn’t tell me.”
“Fuck.” I shove my hands in my pockets, rocking back on my heels. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“If you want me to try to talk to her, I could—”
“Let me deal with my own shit.”
I say it too harsh, then wish there was a way to take it back.
“God forbid anyone should try to help you with your shit, West.”
“I don’t see why you’d want to.”
“Yeah, so you’ve said. Forget it.”
“I’m trying.”
She shoots me a glare, which I deserve, and starts packing up her stuff. The light gleams in her hair. I soak up the green of her sweater, the way her jeans hug her ass.
I’m a dick.
I’m a dick for ogling Caroline’s ass, but mostly I’m a dick because I haven’t talked to Frankie. I don’t want to know what’s going on with the bus because I haven’t got an alternative. Either she takes the bus or I quit my job.
I should quit the job.
The hours are convenient, though, and the pay is good, so instead I’m a dick to Caroline, whose car my sister’s crying in.
I don’t know how to do this. Any of it. Not Frankie and school, not work and having a kid and keeping up with classes, not Caroline in my kitchen in the middle of the night trying to help me when I can’t hardly look at her without wanting to apologize to her or kiss her or both.
Most of the time, both.
I wind the new spare key off my key ring and hold it out. “So you can lock up.”
“Thanks.” She steps closer to take it. “Are you all right?”
I’m drowning. I’m exhausted. I miss you.
I’m such a fucking mess, I feel like people can smell it on me—incompetent panic, guilt, worthlessness—and then she’s here, and I don’t get it.
I can’t make her leave.
I can’t figure out what to say.
“I’m fine.”
Caroline takes another step toward me.
I shove my hands into my back pockets and look at the floor, because if I don’t—
“All right,” she says.
All right.
After she leaves, I heat up lasagna in the microwave. I check the heat before I go to bed.
Even under the covers, I can’t seem to get warm.
