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He curses under his breath. “I think I need to tell your parents.”
I cannot speak.
He wants to tell my fucking parents?
He couldn’t stop thinking about it. My plan. Why couldn’t he stop thinking about my lips, my body, my music? I swear I’d settle just for sex if it meant I could keep him.
“You can’t tell my parents.”
“I have to,” he says. “It’s my responsibility as your teacher. As the adult.”
As the adult. Singular.
My breathing races away from me. It makes my words leap entire octaves. “So, what, I’m not an adult? You’re on my side, aren’t you? I thought you could keep it a secret. You’re my boyfriend.”
“Your boyfriend?” He shakes his head. “I’m not your boyfriend. I’m not taking you to the prom, Adina. I’m not going to buy you jewelry or take you on a weekend trip to a charming bed-and-breakfast.”
And he’s right. He’s one hundred percent right. He is not my boyfriend. He is barely a functioning adult, living in this apartment with a stove that is still broken and a tiny bathroom with black mold on the ceiling and probably nothing in his fridge except expired milk.
I always liked the simple classiness of his studio, but of course, his students don’t ever see the rest of his apartment. Not like I have. He told me once that he didn’t usually cook for people or have anyone over. At the New Year’s Eve party, his friends were so happy to see him. But he has never once mentioned other names to me.
Either there is much he’s kept hidden from me, or his life is entirely unremarkable.
I suppose I’ll never know.
I yank at a thread on my outer layer of tights and wrap it around my fingers until they turn white, hoping it’ll balance out the pressure building behind my eyes. “S
top it. God, do you have any idea how condescending you’re being?”
He springs off the couch and punches the air. “You told me you’re going to commit fucking suicide!”
It is forte, that word. It ricochets around the inside of my skull. It pins me to the couch. Shrinks me. It’s a word I have barely used even in my own head.
When I speak again, my voice is tiny. “Not tomorrow or anything. Just when I start showing more symptoms. A lot of people—”
“What do you think you’re going to do? Slash your wrists? Leave the car running in the garage? Swallow a bottle of pills?”
My mind morphs those words into images, and they are red and violent and not me.
“No. Death with dignity. A lot of people do it.”
“I’m sure they are people much older than you are.”
I slam a pillow against the couch, frustrated by the pathetic thump it makes. “You’re so fixated on age! You’ve never been okay with me being in high school, have you?”
“That’s not what this is about,” he growls.
“Is it? You’re always so back and forth with me. I can never tell what you’re thinking.” I crush my palms into my eyes to trap the tears, but it does no good. Not even five minutes ago, I said, I’m in love with you. I thought this between us was more than sex. For once I wanted more than the physical and assumed I could get it, but maybe that is all I am allowed. Maybe men see me only as a pretty thing to play with.
“What was I supposed to do?” He throws up his hands. “I knew you were getting attached, and more than once I came close to breaking things off. But every time I thought about your . . . your situation, I couldn’t bring myself to hurt you like that.”
“You pitied me.” My worst fear, come true. I am the one who should feel sorry for him: Where is his life going? What is he working toward? He already failed as a musician, regardless of what he said about not enjoying the challenge anymore. He is good, but he is not such a virtuoso that he has nothing left to learn.
“One of us has to be responsible here. One of us needs to tell your parents what the hell is going on with you, because I bet they don’t have a fucking clue.”
“This isn’t your secret to tell. It’s mine.” The tears are falling now. I can’t stop them. “What else am I supposed to do?”
“People deal with these things. It’s horrible, but they do. They go to support groups. They go to therapy. They get help.”
