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“Why don’t you want anyone to know you volunteer?” he asks, and yep, called it.
I sigh, glad he’s behind me, that his chest is against my back and I can’t see his face. That makes it easier to talk, easier to say this to him. I would never answer the question with anyone else.
“I don’t know. It’s hard to put into words. I guess…I don’t like people to see me,” I say, remembering that he’d just said he did and I’m okay with it. But everyone else, if they see the real me and I’m not enough for them, the way I’m not enough for Glen, it would hurt more. “I just like to protect it.”
“You like to protect your heart.” Troy’s breath is warm against my neck, and I tremble.
Yes. I do. Those aren’t words I can force out, so I say, “Let’s eat,” rather than spilling all the shit that’s inside me: that I prefer people to think I’m an asshole to keep them at arm’s length; that showing them this piece of me is like cutting myself open so they see what’s really inside. “You can cook me breakfast. I think I deserve it after the way you railed my ass last night.”
Troy chuckles. “I didn’t hear you complaining, unlessplease,more, andharderdon’t mean what I thought they did.”
“Please hurry up because you’re boring me. Harder because I couldn’t feel you.”
“Yeah. When you were calling out my name and coming, I’m sure that’s ’cause you couldn’t feel me,” he says playfully. We both tug on underwear, and I toss a pair of sweats to him, which Troy puts on. “I will cook you breakfast, though. I’m a gentleman. But I have to work half a shift today, so I can’t stay long.”
I nod. “I work this afternoon too.”
We head into the kitchen, where I don’t actually make Troy cook all the food. He makes pancakes while I scramble eggs. We sit at the small table instead of on the couch, where I usually eat.
“Are we really not gonna talk about it?” Troy asks.
“Nope.”
“The whole if-anyone-found-out thing…”
“Fuck everyone. It’s no one’s business but ours.”
But he’s right. Glen would blow a fucking gasket, which just pisses me off. Why can he treat people like shit, but Troy and I messing around would anger him? I don’t care, not really, but then deep down, part of me does because of Mom, because of the relationship she would want us to have.
“What are you thinking about?” He reaches over and fingers my hair. I want to burrow into his hand, want to kiss him and fuck him and tell him not to go. It’s ridiculous and frustrating what he does to me.
“Everything.”
“Do you want to talk about it?” When I give him a look that saysfuck no, he chuckles. “I should have known.”
“Yes, you should have.”
We chat while we eat, Troy scrolling through Instagram at the same time. When I see a photo of Christian, the guy I fought with at the frat party last year, a growl rips from my throat.
“Um…what was that?”
“Why do you follow him? He’s a dick.”
I see the light bulb go off when he remembers the fight, the one that got me banned from his stupid frat parties.
“Wow. You really hate him, don’t you? You know, I don’t understand why you picked that fight with him. He’s just a random guy we know from parties. What’s the big deal?”
No, he wouldn’t understand, would he? Because I don’t want him to know, don’t want anything to hurt him.
I stand up and take our plates into the kitchen, setting them in the sink, then return to the table.
“What happened?” The way his voice lowers an octave, I can tell he knows it was more than a dumb fight. Fuck, I never should have said anything.
“Nothing.”
“What did he do?” Troy asks, and when I try to walk away, he grabs my wrist and tugs me closer, until I’m standing between his legs. He looks up at me from where he’s sitting on the chair. “Tell me, A.”
“Fuck him.”
