“So what’s up? You said it was something important?” Dylan asks.
“Yes. Why are you being so stupid?”
His brows draw together. “What? What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about how you’re being stupid with Emma.” I fold my hands and lean on the wall. “Why are you guys still fighting?”
“I’m not fighting with her.”
“Really? Then why’s Emma always moping? And how come you don’t come around?”
It’s been a week of fighting between them and Dylan hasn’t shown up at the apartment. It’s always Matt, and he always steals all my Twizzlers—which is so not good—but mostly, I’m worried about Emma. I’m worried that something that isn’t either of their fault is causing a rift between them. It’s really silly to fight over something her mom did such a long time ago.
“I think you guys are being really stupid and dramatic,” I add, without giving Dylan a chance to talk. “I mean, you guys love each other. Do you know how rare that is? Why can’t you get over it?”
Dear God, I could slap him silly for squandering away something so precious.
“Hey, I’m fine with it, okay? I’m fine with patching things up, but she’s being unreasonable. I even apologized about the whole mom thing, and what does she do? She agrees to go to Florida with Matt for spring break.”
“What?”
“You didn’t know about that?” I shake my head, stunned. “Well, apparently Matt and Emma are going to Florida for a few days to chill out, all because we had a stupid fight. If she wants to make me jealous, she can go ahead and do that.”
“But that doesn’t sound like her. That does not sound like her at all.”
He shakes his head. “I don’t even care. It’s just too much hassle to begin with. We never should’ve started going out.”
I stand up straight and widen my eyes at him. “What? No! You guys are great together. And you love her. And she loves you. There’s obviously more to the story.”
Dylan goes quiet and stares at me. It’s weird, the way he’s looking. He’s gone all shy and awkward as he runs a hand over the back of his neck. “Your eyes are…huge.”
“Huh?”
“I mean, they are…they are beautiful.”
“O-kay. Dylan—”
“I had a crush on you last semester. I mean, I liked you. Crush sounds so juvenile.” He throws out a nervous laugh and somehow comes even closer to me.
“Dylan, that’s just—”
“I always thought you were beautiful, and well, when I saw you in Professor Abrams’ class, I-I wanted to ask you out…”
He trails off and bends his head toward me. I know what’s coming. I know he’s going to kiss me before he even puts his mouth on my lips. He smells of coffee and cold, and his lips are soft, and maybe a little bit dry.
I am frozen under him. It’s not fear—I know he won’t hurt me—it’s something else. Maybe shock? I’m stunned at his actions, but as he slips his tongue out to trace the seams of my lips, I jerk back.
He is hurt—it’s there in his eyes—and slightly ashamed, not because I didn’t reciprocate, but because of his fight with Emma. He is jealous and he wants some control back. God, men are so simple.
Before I can tell him my conclusions, I feel someone staring at us. Dylan feels it too, and he moves out of the way and turns around. It’s Thomas. His gaze is pinned on me and his jaw is locked shut.
It’s obvious he saw the kiss. Shit. I move away from Dylan because nothing happened between us. I want to go to Thomas and tell him it didn’t mean anything. I even take a step forward, but then I remember where we are—and more importantly, who we are to each other.
I can’t run across the space and jump into his arms. I’m afraid to even smile at him. My lips might spill our secret. It hits me how we can’t do the little things that normal couples do. We are not even a couple.
“Hey, Professor,” Dylan greets, nervously.
Thomas barely spares him a glance as he begins walking toward us. What is he doing? I swallow a thick knot at his hardened expression, his determined strides. My legs move of their own accord and take a couple of steps back.
He pauses in front of me. His eyes are so blue, so flaming. I can’t stand it. I open my mouth to say something—anything is better than this aggressive silence—but Thomas cuts me off. “Excuse me.”
I blink up at him. “What?”
He studies me for the length of four beats. “You’re in my way.”
I lick my lips and his eyes flare, become even bluer, if possible. An answering tug in my belly makes me want to arch up to him—and that’s exactly the kind of thing I cannot do. It serves as a wake-up call and I look around. I am, indeed, in his way. I’m blocking the door.
“Sorry,” I say, looking up at him.
As soon as I move aside, he passes me and enters the room.
The class goes by quickly. We discuss Satyr by a seventeenth-century poet, John Wilmot. According to him, men are beasts and society civilizes those beasts. So fuck society. Fuck rationality. Do whatever you want to do. Don’t judge your impulses, just act on them. I’d believe him if it weren’t for the fact that he had a steady stream of mistresses and that he died of an STD.
Thomas never looks at me once. He appears normal, no signs of anger or anything, as if the scene from earlier didn’t happen. Am I the one making a big deal out of it? Maybe he didn’t mind. Maybe it didn’t even register on his radar. I should be happy about this because it was, in fact, nothing, but I am not. I am the opposite of happy right now. I am… I can’t tell what I am, but it’s not good.
When the class is done, I decide to talk to Thomas about it, but I don’t get the chance. A couple of girls—whose names I don’t even know—surround him, asking questions. Usually, Thomas is reserved. He never encourages discussion, dashing out of class before anyone gets the chance to ask him anything, but today he is lingering, answering all their questions with patience. He is smiling at them, nodding and talking. He never does that. Never.
It’s making me feel worse by the second. I have too much useless, restless energy inside me. It’s making me horny. It’s making me crazy. I just want him to look at me once. Just once.
When I can’t take it anymore, I jerk out of my seat and dash out of there. I run across campus to my next class. I sit beside the window, looking out at the snowy courtyard. The serenity of it all is making everything worse. Why isn’t the world exploding with me? I know I should channel all this frustration into something productive, like writing. But fuck writing. Fuck everything.
Why wouldn’t he look at me? Why would he talk to those girls? Why didn’t that meaningless kiss affect him?