Trade Me (Cyclone #1)

On the street to my right, I see three students stumble by.

“The day before our first finals, we were joking around. Playing. I liked him a lot. And we were touching, sitting close. He just put his arms around me, and then…things went on from there. We had sex, and I liked it.” Her face is utterly straight. “For one day, I thought I could have everything. That I might be able to do all the things I have to do, and still have someone.”

There’s another long silence and I count businesses again. Chinese food, wine bar, locksmith.

“After our first final together,” she says, “he asked if I wanted to grab a beer. He was already at the bar when I got there, sitting with some friends. And he introduced one of them to me as his girlfriend. That’s how I found out.”

I exhale sharply. “That’s fucked up.”

“I’m not saying you would do that,” she says. “But you have to understand—it hurt. It hurt a lot. I still had four finals left. I just wanted to curl up and disappear, and I couldn’t. I didn’t have time to care then, and I really don’t have it now. I can’t let myself get hurt.”

My hands twitch on my lap, and for the first time, I look over at her. Even though the street is mostly deserted, she’s going slowly, as if she’s still afraid to do more. “I understand,” I say. “I don’t want to hurt you, either.”

“Yeah?” She glances my way dubiously, and when she sees me watching her, quickly turns back to the street. “Tell me, Blake. What are the chances that you’ll stay here? That we can kiss now and not break up later?”

The truth is, I’m only here until I get a grip on my problem. My dad needs me. The instant I’m capable of walking away, I will.

I shake my head.

“Exactly,” she says. “That’s what I would put our chances at. Approximately zero. I freaked out on you. But I had a good reason.”

She turns onto the street where I’m staying. She doesn’t say anything and I don’t either. She pulls up in front of the house, and finally I turn to her. She’s not looking at me; she’s staring down. Her hands tangle on the black leather wrapping the wheel. Her hair is loose around her face, obscuring her from my sight.

I open the door and step out into the night. Her head is bowed; she doesn’t look at me as I walk around to her side of the car and open her door. She turns, looking up at me.

She’s told me why she can’t kiss me; she hasn’t said why she did it in the first place. She doesn’t have to. I can see it in the way her eyes refuse to leave mine. I can see it in the way her lips press together, and then slowly, her tongue darts out, wetting them. I can see it in the darkness of her eyes.

Hell, I tasted it on her the other day.

“It’s okay,” I say. “I get it. Hell, I’m terrified for you.”

I can hear her breath in the silence of the night. She looks down and then away. Her hand clenches, and then she undoes the seatbelt. She stands, even though that puts her right next to me. I can feel the heat of her, so close I could touch her.

I don’t.

There’s never anything like real stars around here. Just a few of the brightest constellations and the lights of planes overhead. Still, she tilts her head up, looking into the night sky.

“I don’t know why anyone thinks that looking at the stars is so romantic,” she says. “Have they ever read Greek mythology? It’s all the same story—God sees mortal, God desires mortal, mortal suffers gruesome fate and is rewarded with an eternity of pain in the cosmos.” She shrugs.

“You could always make up your own stories.”

But she’s already shaking her head. “No. Those stories are written in the stars already, Blake. They’re written in stardust millions of years old. I don’t think I get to change them.”

“Then I’m thankful for light pollution,” I say.

She makes a little noise, something close to a laugh, and it sets off a cascade of desire in me.

You’d think I would be spoiled after a lifetime of getting anything I’ve ever wanted. Maybe I am. But I’ve spent a year wanting, a year yearning for something that deep down, I’m afraid I’m never going to get. This new, frustrating level of want is right up my alley.

And at least wanting Tina won’t kill me.

“You’re a lot more decent than I thought you would be,” she says.

I want to hold her right now, to put my arms around her and tell her it will be all right. But I can’t even tell myself that.

And so instead, I run my thumb down her cheek. I know I shouldn’t touch her. I know I shouldn’t think this. I know that I shouldn’t let my hand rest on her lips.

But I do.

“Good night, Tina,” I say. “Don’t look at the stars.”

“I won’t,” she says. “They don’t mean anything anyway.”