I nod my head and say in a small voice, “Yes. I’ll do anything for you to make me a grown-up.”
Thomas growls and his hands settle on my hips. I’m expecting him to haul me to his chest, but he keeps me pinned to the door and moves away.
“Not today.” His chest shudders with difficult breaths. “Go home, Layla.”
“But—”
Thomas tucks my unruly hair behind my ear. “You should probably hold on to your naiveté a little while longer. So just go home.”
I had a bad dream, and now I can’t go back to sleep. I’ve been tossing and turning for hours.
I pull myself up, sighing in frustration. In the past, before Caleb went away, I’d call him, no matter the time, and ask him to hold me. I can’t imagine us ever getting back to that place.
I feel so lonely. I haven’t felt this lonely since Emma moved in.
Turning on the light, I reach out, pick up my notebook from the nightstand, and open to the last page I wrote on. I thumb the tiny curls of paper around the white spiral where a page has been torn off.
My poem.
Before sending me on my way, Thomas tore the page and kept the poem for himself. He didn’t say anything, just folded it and slid it into his pocket while staring at me.
I shiver under the blanket as if his eyes are still on me, hot and hooded with desire. It makes me aware of the lingering wetness between my legs, how I threw myself at him and he denied me, never even touched me with more than a finger on my chest and belly, a palm on my cheeks.
I’m dying for him. Dying. It’s all I can think about—that, and how immoral this is. With each passing day, I’m crossing more and more lines.
Where does it stop, I wonder. How does it stop? Why can’t I control myself?
I thump my head on the headboard, try to put pen to paper, but nothing comes out. Nothing feels right. I want to write but I can’t bring myself to, so I try to read. Maybe Barthes or Plath will have some insight.
Barthes tells me it’s okay if things are hopeless and Plath tells me to kill myself, so I shut them down.
Then I drag my laptop from the desk and look up Thomas on the university’s website. I’ve seen this page a million times since classes started, but still my breath halts for a moment when I take in his face. Handsome, unsmiling, unattainable.
My eyes home in on his office phone number, the tiny ten-digit number located under his office address. I have seen that number before but have never really seen it, never really thought about it.
I sit up and look for my phone. It’s wedged between the mattress and the headboard. I swipe across the screen, ignoring messages from Caleb, and dial the number. It’s crazy. I don’t even know why I am calling. What am I going to say to him? Besides, I don’t even think he’s going to be in his office this late at night, but I need a connection with him, even if it’s flimsy, even if it’s with his answering machine. In fact, I’m counting on it. I’ll say whatever I want to say and then hang up and go to sleep.
On the third ring, there’s a click, and then his sandpapery voice fills my ears. “Hello?”
I almost drop the phone. “Th-Thomas?”
“Layla?” The creak of his chair sounds. “What… Why are you calling me this late at night?”
“I was… I didn’t expect you to pick up.”
He is silent for a few seconds, maybe just as stunned as I am, or maybe thinking about what happened between us only a few hours ago.
“See, if you don’t want me to pick up my phone, then don’t call me on my phone.”
I puff out a breath and fall against my pillow, grinning like a fool at his teasing tone. “I just thought you’d be at home.”
This time the silence is loaded, as if I stepped on a landmine, but his voice doesn’t reflect any turmoil. “Now that we’ve established that I’m not, do you mind telling me why the hell you are calling?”
“I…” I want to ask him about what’s going on with him, but I don’t. I know he won’t tell me. He’s only honest in those stolen moments, in my desperation.
“I can’t sleep,” I blurt out instead, and funnily, it sounds pouty. He hears my strange voice, which apparently only comes out when he’s around, and sucks in a breath. Where is this coming from? This ache, this restlessness, this boldness. I can’t stay still. I’m rustling my legs together, playing with the neck of my white cami.
“And you thought talking to me would put you to sleep. Your flattery knows no end, does it?” His voice is hoarse as he makes the joke, and just like that, the loneliness is gone.
“As I said, I didn’t expect you to pick up. I just…I didn’t know who to call.” I let him adjust to the truth. Meanwhile, I brace myself for his signature rudeness, but deep down, I know it won’t come. Thomas isn’t deliberately mean; he just pretends to be for some reason.
“Why can’t you sleep?” he asks in a low tone, proving me right.
“I had a bad dream,” I say, snuggling into the pillow. “About Caleb. Well, not a bad dream, per se. I mean, he was happy in it, or at least he looked like it from where I was standing. He was kinda having sex.” A deep breath, mine, before I confess, “With a guy.”
Nothing. No sound on the other end. I decide I don’t need him to say anything, not yet. I want to get this out first.
“He’s gay.” I throw out a short laugh. “The guy I grew up with, the guy I’ve loved all my life is gay—and you know the worst part? I never knew. I never even saw a hint that he might be gay. He never told me and I never took the time to notice. He said sleeping with me was his way of checking if he could switch teams.” Another short laugh bubbles out of me, this one harsher. “I’m an idiot, aren’t I? A complete moron. A selfish moron.”
That felt…good. My chest isn’t caving anymore. The weight of this secret isn’t mangling my bones.
Thomas is silent again so I coax him. “Say something. No, wait—say something helpful, not one of your sarcastic comments that help no one but you.”
“And why should I withhold for you?” I like that he’s teasing me, not treating me with kid gloves—not that he is even capable of doing so.
“Because I’ve decided we’re friends. That’s why the word vomit.”
“You hump all your friends?” he growls.
Oh God. My eyes flutter and I squeeze my thighs together. “No. We’re not just friends.”
“Is that right?”
“Mm-hmm.” I nod and open my mouth to say…something, but it doesn’t matter what because I’m struck by a revelation, an epiphany.
“We’re soul mates.” I can’t breathe, and at the same time, I feel light as a balloon.
“Excuse me?”
“Yes.” My eyes widen as everything slides into place. “That’s it. We’re soul mates.”
“I… You… What?”
“Oh, would you relax?” I can imagine the vein on the side of his neck pulsing. “Not the kind who end up together or live happily ever after. We’re not that kind of soul mates. Even I’m not that na?ve. What I mean is, we understand each other. We’re similar—well, similar in all the ways that count.”