Page 20 of The Bargain

“Who’s that?”

Desdemona springs into motion. She throws her bag over her shoulder and grabs my arm in a cool, impersonal grip.

“Come with me,” she mutters—not a request. “Nobody!” she calls lightly behind us, marshalling us away from the court. “Catch you tomorrow, Zaff.”

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” Zaff calls mischievously back.

Desdemona’s fingers tighten on my arms so hard I wonder if she’s going to leave a bruise—but she doesn’t reply. In real time, I just got to witness her withdrawing inside herself. Interesting.

Desdemona, it seems, is a builder of fortresses. Fortresses of academic and athletic successes, of names and rules and achievements. What are they all hiding, I wonder?

A little scared girl, probably. A pile of buried desires.

Couldn’t be me. I don’t bury my desires: I raise them up and feed them with fuel. I burn them high and bright. And in the barren cold of the cosmos, I warm my hands by that fire.

Not for the first time in my life, I find myself shoved unceremoniously into a closet.

The equipment shed is small and warm despite the cold outside; above us, a single lightbulb stutters dimly to life, as if startled by our intrusion. I cough, choking slightly on the air, which is dusty, dense with the smells of rubber, resin, sweat.

Desdemona shoves me into this dimly lit, suffocating space, the edge of her racket bag clipping my hip. She slams the door shut behind us, sealing out the bright court and its clean air, the trees, the school, and any prying eye.

She whips around and faces me.

“What are you doing here?”

“Watching you play.”

Her jaws clench.

“How did you know I’d be here?” she snaps.

“Where else would you be?” I retort. I grab the towel out of her bag and toss it at her. “You’ve been ignoring my texts.”

“I’ve not gotten around to replying,” she lies.

Her hand is still wrapped firmly around the handle of her racket, knuckles practically white from the force of her grip.

“You wouldn’t be trying to wriggle yourself out of our deal, would you, love?”

“Of course not.” A dull flush rises in her cheeks. “I’ve been busy, that’s all.” Her jaw clenches so hard that I see the tensing of the muscles all the way to her temples. “I’m sorry.”

Something catches in my chest. Taken by surprise by her apology, I step back, putting distance between us.

“I’m not asking you to fall into bed with me or shout your love from the rooftops, alright? Let’s start off easy, nice and simple.”

She nods. Her fingers slowly loosen around her racket handle, and she sets it aside. “What are you thinking?”

“Lunch.” I tilt my head. “Together. Tomorrow.”

She licks her lips. She’s nervous, but I don’t quite know why.

“It can’t be that humiliating, can it?” I say aloud, my tone amused even though my stomach feels tight with sudden shame. “Having lunch with me?”

She shakes her head. “It’s not. It’s just…”

And then she glances at me and stops herself. She snaps her mouth shut, as if she’s caught herself about to say something she shouldn’t. For a moment, we stare at one another.

“Lunch tomorrow,” she says, firmly, like a schoolteacher. “Yes. But I think it would be wise to lay down some ground rules beforehand.”