Trade Me (Cyclone #1)

Still, I read the second note when he slides it over.

I’ve been Blake fucking Reynolds since I was two years old. I’ve never had a chance to be anyone else. I don’t know if you understand why I find you so fucking hot. It’s because you know who you are, where you’re going. You have a plan and nobody will distract you from it.

I feel like I’m disappearing.

When you kissed me, I felt like I existed—me, not the kid who’s been on this same path since birth.

Me.

I know it will never mean the same thing to you. I know you want to forget it. But I’m going to remember that long after you’ve forgotten that I exist.

My stomach tightens. There’s a rawness, a nakedness to this, one that sweeps through my attempts to push him away.

I get out another piece of paper. Up in front, the professor talks. I can pretend that it doesn’t matter. I can.

But I don’t. Instead, I write back.

I’m scared I’ll tell myself lies. I’m scared I’ll—fall in love with you, I want to write. But that’s too big, too scary to even put down in words, even in the hypothetical. Instead, I settle for get attached to you. I’m scared I’ll pin my hopes on you and I don’t have so many hopes that I can afford to lose one.

My hand is shaking as I pass this back. Truth is, it’s too late already for that. And I already know what he’s going to say: Don’t be scared, baby. I would never hurt you.

But I don’t want to be comforted. I’m shaking, trying to figure out how to explain that my fear makes me safe. That I don’t want to get rid of it. Without fear, I am too comfortable. Without fear, I make mistakes. I have to be careful.

But he doesn’t say what I expect.

Instead, he writes: Is there anything I can do to make you feel safe?

My throat closes. It matters that he doesn’t tell me that my feelings are stupid, that they need to be shoved aside. My emotions are a tangling, irrational mess—but they’re still mine, and my fear mixes with confusion, respect, and appreciation.

For a moment, I imagine it. I think of that future where I can kiss Blake and not fear. I imagine my heart unshielded, open and ready to be crushed. I imagine the kind of person who could put herself out like that.

I imagine reaching over and taking his hand, saying to him, “There is something you can do, and you just did it.” My fingers inch to the edge of the desk. My palm tingles. One motion, and…

Xingjuan, be careful.

The words are like a slap. I flatten my hand against the desk, quashing that impulse. I concentrate on my breath—each inhale crystal clear, filling my lungs and then spilling out once more—until I don’t want anymore.

Then I finally let myself answer.

No, I write. There’s nothing you can do. It’s just not safe.

He reads this. He looks ahead. His chin squares, and for a moment, I think he really will protest. But a few minutes later, he sends back a note.

Okay. If that’s what you need.

I let out a shaky breath, afraid to believe. Adam Reynolds’s son, showing restraint? I write. That’s hard to believe.

He turns his head and looks at me. His eyes are impenetrable. And then he bows his head and writes again. On the contrary. Adam Reynolds’s son knows what it’s like to be pushed too far. He would never do it to anyone he cares about. Friends?

Friends, I write slowly. Until this is over.

12.

BLAKE

Friends is supposed to be a bad word, and I suppose my body thinks it is. Spending time around Tina leaves me on edge, horny and restless in a way that no amount of running—or, let’s be honest, masturbation—can cure.

Truth is, I want her and I want her bad. It’s worse now that we’ve kissed. Now that I’ve touched her almost all over, now that I know how she responds to me. Those wants feel embedded permanently in me, a tattoo of lust that resides just beneath my skin.

But—and this is going to sound weird—I actually enjoy it. It fits with the life I’ve adopted for now. I wash dishes; I stumble through my classes in a haze. I spend time with Tina, going through details of the launch.

The want gives me something to do, something to focus on. Something so that sometimes, I forget myself and I can eat without choking on my own food. The desire distracts me; I almost don’t even have to run to push everything else away.

Almost.

Want is always present, fierce and ferocious, a punch to the throat. Here, it says. Here this is. Here you are. Here is one thing you want.

I want, therefore I am.

Tina and I don’t talk about how much I want her, not for weeks.