We’re a sad pair, Dylan and I. While we’re both talking to each other, our attention is diverted. He keeps glancing toward Emma, who has upped her game and is now laughing at whatever Matt is saying. The move may be cliché, but I’m so proud of her. It’s hard to keep my face straight.
And me? I can’t help but shift my eyes to Thomas. He is a tall, dark figure leaning—or rather, sprawling—against a wall, away from the crowd gathered around the table. He’s taken his jacket off, leaving him in a plain black t-shirt. It stretches across his sculpted chest when he runs his fingers through the strands of his hair. He takes lazy sips from the beer bottle in his hands, quirking up small smiles as the shorter man beside him talks.
Just then Emma barks out a loud laugh and Dylan gives up all pretenses of talking to me. “What’s funny?” he grumbles, and I can’t hold back my chuckle.
My intuition was fucking right. Dylan’s such a moron. Shaking my head, I sneak a glimpse at Thomas. This time, our gazes catch. Tiny blue flames stare at me from across the space and I’m suspended in his attention. I have the straw in my mouth, but I’m not sucking on it. I’m not even drawing breath.
He found me.
The thought runs on a loop even when he looks away and turns to the stage. Something tells me he’s thinking of me; I spy the subtle movement of his sharp jaw as he clenches his teeth.
He hates me.
A small smile blooms on my lips. I love that he hates me. See, hopeless. I’ve never loved hopelessness so much before.
I look away when the static of the mic fills the room as Thomas’ friend takes his place on the stage. He announces the commencement of poetry night and introduces Emma.
I wish her good luck as she walks up on the stage with a piece of paper in her hands.
“Thank you, Professor Masters, for the lovely introduction.” She laughs, looking giddy and flushed. “And thank you all for having me up here. I’m going to read something I wrote a long time ago. It’s called You, and I hope you enjoy.”
She looks at the paper once before tucking it back in her jeans pocket. Her gaze falls on Dylan, who sits riveted next to me. She starts with a clear voice and confident demeanor. Her words are simple but filled with longing.
During the entire narration, she never takes her eyes off Dylan, letting him know the poem is an homage to the love she feels for him. It’s beautiful, and for the first time in my life, I feel like I’ve done something right. I’ve brought them together, made both of them the star of the show, and who doesn’t want to be a star? It’s a dream for everyone, that one moment in the spotlight.
People are catching on to what Emma is doing. They watch Dylan’s astonished face and Emma’s flushed one, alternatively. Tears brim in my eyes as I witness their love story reaching its peak right in front of me.
This is what requited love looks like.
Shimmering. Grinning. Teary-eyed.
We want it too.
But I’ll never have that.
When the poem is done, I notice that Thomas is gone. I look around, but I can’t see him anywhere. I spring up from my seat before the clapping subsides, and no one notices my departure in the midst of love.
The hallway in the back is littered with people leaning against the brick walls, some fondling their dates, some waiting in the bathroom queue. The industrial lights above are dimmed, lending the narrow passageway an intimacy that begs for illicit touches and grey-tinted, slippery kisses.
Thomas might have simply left or gone to the bathroom, but my attention is snagged by the rusted maroon door with the exit sign. It stands ajar, bringing in the chilly draft from the outside. I push it open, stepping into the dark, cold alley. The wall opposite is lined with trashcans.
The cold, stinging air punches my nose and forehead, and I sneeze. Once. Two times. My boots almost slip over the patch of ice on the ground but I manage to keep my balance.
“Fuck!” I right myself, patting my heavy ensemble of a coat, a scarf, and a beanie.
“I don’t think you’re old enough to curse.”
I gasp at the familiar guttural voice. Thomas emerges from beside the fire escape, ringlets of smoke rising from his lips. The yellow light lends him a certain glow. My drunk-on-crush heart jumps in my chest, pounding, pumping my blood furiously.
Even outside, he’s without his jacket, leaving his elbows and his veiny, hair-dusted forearms exposed. What is it with me and his hands? I can’t stop looking at them. I can’t stop imagining them over mine. As if my lust was waiting for a single glimpse of his magical fingers, it bobs to the surface and I’m thrust back into my dark apartment, in front of the sliding door, watching the snow, playing with myself.
“You can stop staring any second now.” He takes in a drag and blows out a cloud of smoke.
“I wasn’t staring,” I lie.
“Sure.”
Thomas leans against the damp wall and crosses his arms across his chest, careful to keep the burning end of the cigarette away. The glowing orange embers tumble to the frosty ground, appearing like fireworks. I almost regret missing out on his battle with his impulse. His flickering anger giving way to his defeat—it’s fascinating to me.
Before I know it, I am walking closer to him, catching a hint of his chocolatey scent, and snatching his cigarette away. I put it in my mouth and almost moan out loud at the relief.
“You’re right. I was staring,” I confess, puffing out smoke. “But only because you’ve got this.”
The hit of nicotine is instant, liquefying. It dissolves my brain, one puff at a time. I’m bolder, invincible with it in my body—or maybe it’s my hopeless crush making me feel immortal tonight.
“Stealing is a sin,” he tells me.
“I’m not stealing.” I smile. “I’m borrowing. And don’t worry, I only borrow things that make me high.”
He shakes his head at me and scratches his jaw. “You probably missed school the day they taught that smoking causes cancer.”
I burst into laughter. His words remind me of the analogy I made to Kara the other day. I look back at his shimmering face. He is like my personal moon—unattainable, to be admired from afar. He is my cancer, slowly killing me, and I don’t even mind.
“I’m not afraid to die,” I divulge, taking another puff. He is watching me with an unknown glint in his eyes. I can’t decipher it, and I don’t want to. Let it be a mystery; mysteries can’t hurt me. “Besides, it’s not impossible that I might have missed that class. I wasn’t the type to attend classes.”
“What type were you?”
“I don’t know, the bad type. I used to cut school. I was always behind on homework. My teachers thought I was a nightmare to deal with.”
“Is that really something you should be telling your professor?”
His hands are in his pockets and his ankles are crossed. He has black snow boots with grey soles, and something about the ruggedness of them makes me smile. “But then you’re not my professor, are you? And I’m not your student. I’m just the trespasser.”