Page 86 of 72 Hours of You

“NO! FUCK YOU!” God, fucking Jules!

I get out of the shower and throw some pajamas on. I open the door to the bathroom, letting the steam billow out into my room. “Well, I hope you’re—”

Peter.

Peter is standing in the doorway to my room. “Hi.”

I freeze. The sight of him is so weird and so familiar all at the same time. It’s like in the three days that I haven’t seen him, I almost started to convince myself he was never real. But here he is. In jeans and a dark green shirt. All I’d have to do is cross the room and I could touch him again. Feel the warm aliveness of him. Put my fingers on the edges of his shirt, pull him toward me. Breathe him in.

But I don’t know if I’m allowed to anymore.

So I just stand there, my wet hair dripping down the back of my shirt.

I open my mouth to say I’m sorry. To apologize again for trauma-dumping. Or maybe to yell at him. To say out loud all the things I said in my unanswered DMs. But what comes out instead is “You left.”

“I know,” he says. “But I’m back.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, my voice cracking. “I really am. I really—”

“Sydney. Oh man, please don’t apologize.” He takes a breath and rubs the back of his neck. “You have absolutely nothing to be sorry for. I’m the one who … God, I’m sorry. This was all me. I shouldn’t have … I’m such an asshole.”

“No you’re not.”

“Yes I am. That day at the waterfall … you were telling me all that stuff about your mom and …”

“It was too much, I know.”

“No it wasn’t. I never wanted to leave you. You’re amazing. You’re—”

“Then why …” I swallow. “Why did you stay away?” The words come out smaller and softer than I mean for them to.

“Because I was trying to … I don’t know.” Peter’s face sort of squeezes like he’s in pain, and he closes his eyes and runs his hands through his hair. “I thought I could be better than this but I can’t.”

“I don’t understand … .”

“I’ve been reading Sartre—”

“Of course you have.”

“And he says, ‘Man is not the sum of what he has already, but rather the sum of what he does not yet have.’ And god, Sydney, all I can think about right now is that I don’t have you.” He takes a step into my room. “The sum of me is wanting you.”

“Peter …” My heart is hammering in my chest.

“I tried to stay away. But I can’t. I … I have things I have to tell you, Syd. I—”

“I don’t care,” I say, my eyes burning. “I don’t care.” All I care about is that he’s here—in front of me right now.

I reach out and grab him by the shirt, pulling the fabric, and him, into me. He stumbles but then steadies himself, wrapping his arms around me. He’s back. He’s here.

I press my face into his chest, finally feeling like I can live again. I just have to hold on. To him. To this.

“Sydney …” He pulls back, his face serious, his eyes searching mine. But I don’t care what the end of that sentence is. I don’t need any more words. Not from decaying philosophers. Not from other books. Not even from Peter.

I stand up on my toes and kiss him, my arms circling his neck. And for a second he doesn’t kiss me back, but then he does. Hard. And we fall into bed, holding each other, gasping for the same air, kissing like our lives depend on it. And fuck, maybe they do.

Forty-Nine

THE SUN IS DROPPING outside my window, casting my room in that weird dusty-blue color that comes right before night.