Page 81 of Such Sharp Teeth

“I’m going home,” he says. “Why?”

Fuck it. “You weren’t going to invite me?”

“Didn’t think you’d want to come,” he says. “Also, you look pretty busy.”

I wipe my hands on a napkin, instead of my pants like I’ve been doing. I look up at him.

“I’m sorry I’ve been MIA. I had a bad week, okay? Like, epically bad.”

“I wasn’t sure what was going on,” he says. “You weren’t responding. If you don’t want this, that’s fine. I’m not going to hold it against you—I never have. But I think I made it clear where I stand and would hope you’d respect me enough to not just ignore me.”

“I’m sorry.” Why did I eat all of those fucking hot dogs? “I wasn’t ignoring you. It’s . . . I’ve had a rough couple of days. That’s really all it is.”

He pushes his glasses up his nose and takes another drag of his cigarette.

“Do you want to come home with me?”

“So forward. I’m a lady, you know.”

“Rory.”

Then I say what I know I shouldn’t.

I say yes.

—

We make it inside but not up the stairs. His hands are in my hair; mine are unbuttoning his jeans. His lips are on my neck, and I’m not thinking about anything but how good it feels to be with him.

When it’s over, we lie on the rug, listening to each other breathe. He takes my hands in his. I like when his hands swallow up my hands. I like everything about him.

“You want water?” he asks me.

“Mm,” I say. “Thank you.”

He gets up and goes to the kitchen. I put my pants back on and sit on the couch. I pull one of the blankets around my shoulders like a cape.

He comes back and hands me a glass.

“You want to talk about your bad week?” he asks.

Do I?

“Actually, yeah,” I say. “I kind of do. Is that all right?”

“No, I just asked to be polite. I don’t really give a shit,” he says, grinning.

I throw a pillow at him.

“I want to hear,” he says. “I’m relieved you weren’t avoiding me.”

I was avoiding him, but he doesn’t need to know that.

“Well, my mom’s here and our relationship is not great at the moment. I don’t think it was ever great. I just didn’t know better when I was a kid. It’s that thing like when you’re in a cult and you don’t realize you’re in a cult until you’re out of the cult,” I say, stretching my legs over his lap.

He rubs my feet. “Right,” he says. “Are you comparing your mother to Charles Manson?”

“No, I would never,” I say. “Her vibe is way more Heaven’s Gate.”