He wanders away, leaving me and Dmitri alone again, but I’m still unsettled. I glance over at their table, where Jake crashes into one of his buddies’ laps as they wrestle and laugh. Guilt hits me hard again.
They didn’t bat an eye at us being so close. So why did I?
I stare at my half-eaten slice, appetite gone.
“You okay?” Dmitri asks carefully.
Another rush of shame hits me, because he’s the one who’s hurt, but he’s still the one checking in on me first. “Yeah,” I lie. “Just… loud.”
He nods, but the warmth from earlier is dimmed, and I know it’s my fault. We finish eating in quieter bursts, talking about the food and the view, but nothing deep. When the check comes, Dmitri grabs it before I can object, paying so fast that I wonder if he’s in a hurry to get away from me.
We head down the stairs and out into the cooling night, and walk back to campus under the buzz of the streetlights. Our shoulders brush every few steps, but Dmitri’s stance is rigid.
I want to say something.
That I’m sorry for pulling away.
That I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.
That the thought of him thinking I was ashamed makes me want to puke.
But the words stick in my throat, and I can’t find a way to force them out. Instead, as we near the dorms, I glance at him, stoic and thoughtful in step beside me. “Spring break’s next week,” I say cautiously. “Got any plans?”
He glances at me, but it doesn’t linger. “Not really. I’ll probably just head home to see family.”
“Really?” I deadpan. “Every time your dad calls, you have a stroke, but you’re going to spend your free week with them?”
“Well, what else would I do?” he asks, obviously hedging.
I grin easier and bump him with my shoulder. “There’s a big landscaping project I have to be here for mid-week, so I don’t have time for a trip home. If you’re willing to hang around, maybe we could do something? Like a day trip or whatever.” I hesitate, watching his expression soften. “Maybe I could make up for being an idiot tonight?”
He stops under a streetlamp and turns to face me, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “You’re always an idiot.”
“True.” I reach over and squeeze his arm gently. “But yeah. Think about it?”
“I’d rather be with you than them any day,” he responds easily. “You just tell me where to show up, and I’ll be there.” He hesitates, like he might say more, then shakes his head as if rattling a thought loose.
This is the part of the night he always leaves me—out here in the commons, nowhere close to my building. He’s always done it this way, like he doesn’t want to know where I live.
“Night, Eric. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay? We’ll talk more then.”
“Yeah, okay. Night, D.”
I watch him go until he’s out of sight, chest tight with everything I didn’t say.
I turn toward my building, replaying the rooftop in my head. Remembering the way he leaned into my touch, and the disappointment when I flinched away. I start turning over ideas. A hike somewhere quiet, maybe, or tickets to that indie art show downtown. Something just us, no crowds.
Something to show him I’m trying to figure this out.
Chapter 7
ThedriveuptoLake Norman State Park is easy—only forty miles north of Charlotte on I-77. We ride with the windows down, letting the spring air rush through the car. This is our first time seeing each other since the restaurant, and Eric’sgood mood borders on manic. I’m not sure if the wide smile is part of his ongoing unspoken apology, or if he’s just relieved to get a break from campus.
Maybe he’s relieved to be with me, away from all the other distractions.
Eric’s playlist blasts through the speakers, and there’s no rhyme or reason to the songs. Classical arias roll into lo-fi indie folk, and he cranks up the volume, swearing a song ‘captures the exact vibe of spring in North Carolina.’ He sings along, and I listen, soaking in these peaceful moments.
The music finally settles into a long string of metalcore that we both gravitate toward, and he belts those out, too. The growling verses, the heavier chorus, and even some of the fry screams and harsh vocals that have him scrambling for a drink afterwards.
