I’m one of the last up the bus steps. I edge down the aisle, the black-ridged rubber path, and nobody’s eyes meet mine. Every so often, a backpack occupies a seat. Derek Cooper and Alison Gardner’s bags. I could be sitting there, but they don’t move their things.
I bring silence rippling up with me row by row, a cloak trailing from my shoulders, a sweep of averted eyes and concentrated texting. No room at these inns. As I pass Dean Prince, whose nose is weirdly swollen, he gives me an outright filthy look. I frown and move on.
Herman from Chemistry. Layna from Calc. Bailey, my relay partner. None of them says a word. My heart is deflating, a sad, old balloon.
I sit down in a seat in the back left corner, alone with my journal.
Everything I did to make these friends. Two years’ worth of work, with no result. This might as well be my first day again. Fresh off the plane. A reset button, and I wasn’t the one who pushed it. I wasn’t the one who made the choice.
I grit my teeth and look down at the phone cupped in my hands, thinking of Valentine.
When I glance back up, I catch Sophie Crane looking away, whispering something to Bailey. Do they believe it? The accusation is so ridiculous. Under the layers of worry and hurt, I’m a bit offended that people don’t think I have better taste than Dr. Norman.
I stare out the window as the bus snails through the parking lot. Why would somebody do that to me? Make that up. Who would do it? Someone who wanted to out me, maybe? But if Matt only told Olivia, and Olivia only told Claire—
She wouldn’t.
Claire wouldn’t.
She wears her grudges like armor. But she wouldn’t . . .
Would she?
The key’s teeth chew down on the lock.
His door swings wide, an opening lid to a treasure chest. Light spills out like liquid gold.
Hood down, head up—check around, make sure nobody saw— Slow down, heart.
I shut the door behind me and head down the hall.
Hello? Someone there? A familiar voice, a familiar smell.
I round the corner, and it’s the most familiar sight, isn’t it— a coffee mug on a glass table. Evening light in his tired eyes. His patched gray sweater on narrow shoulders, rolled up to his elbows.
Shock slathered onto his expression.
Surprise, I say.
The room expands, unfolds, unpacks.
There are miles of gray thread coiling between us.
Cavernous silence and those eyes,
those eyes.
June. What are you doing here?
(I have missed so badly the sight of you saying my name.) It’s freezing. Everything is freezing. My toes and fingers, long and pale. I had to see you. With what they’re saying about Norman—I had to make sure you’re okay.
He opens his mouth, showing nothing on his tongue but quiet.
The man of words, a dry inkwell at last.
He walks step by step my way, and I watch his purposeful strides,
worn sneakers, grayed from morning runs,
stopping inches from mine.
I don’t know what to do, he says. I don’t know who said it was that McCallum kid and Neil Norman, of all people, but it’s only going to get people more riled up. I . . . God, if he gets in serious trouble—the guy has a wife and kids, there’s—
It has to blow over. They have zero proof.
I guess. His voice cracks. He licks his lips. June, I’ve been thinking.
Yeah?
We can cut ties. I can delete your number, texts, emails, everything—I can make sure nobody ever finds out. I can’t fix what’s happening at school, but if it’ll help you . . .
His ocean eyes, deep black tumults, lightning storms.
My three words, three drops of rain. Don’t you dare.
But
If something happens, I am going to be there with you.
I can see his heart beat faster. Are you—
Of course I’m sure. My chest is so full, I think my ribs are cracking. I didn’t come here for a good-bye, David.
I know.
I came here to . . . I wanted . . .
I know, he repeats.
His words light a fire under my lungs. My breaths are thick ash.
So what do we do? I ask.
I don’t know.
But you love me?
Of course I love you.
The top of my heart, hinged, cracks open,
and my fears, ravens, fly out.
They spill away like black paint,
leaving me empty and pink and new.
Hopeful.
He’s reaching out. I’m reaching up to take his hand, passing through a veil of guilt,
swaying two inches before his eyes. David.
His hands rest on my shoulders, lightly as wings.
(your lips fall to mine, natural as gravity, close on my lower lip, rough and sweet.
i touch, i bite, i taste.)
I consume him.
(the sounds at the back of my throat are yours. everything, everything is yours.)
I press tight to his body. Between us is a hair-fine fault line, hardly a fault at all.
His slender hands settle on my back and draw me in, close, closer.
Heat tingles in every inch of this skin,
dense, thick awareness, pins and needles and blisters.
I need you, too, I murmur, flushed, aching.
His lips are a balm on mine. Gentle. June, he whispers, that’s all.
Radiance and setting sun, bliss and blinding want.
(i feel you, cradle you, cherish you.)
When finally we break—
Missed you—
So much—
our shared words whisper and blend and merge.
A kiss, a rough kiss, the stamp of it is raw heat.