“Yeah.” I squirm, wishing I could tell him and uncomfortable with feeling like I can’t. I just need to talk tosomebody—I don’t even need them to talk back. All I want is someone to sit and listen while I word-vomit everything that happened with Max, and how rough it’s been since then. This wound needs excising, and the longer I wait, the worse I feel.
But even if Nate and I were close enough that I could talk to him about it, it wouldn’t be fair to tell him something so private about Max. I can’t talk about myself without talking about Max. So, silence and lies it will remain.
“Do you have any plans for the summer?” he asks, face propped in his palm and the other resting on the bed between us.
“Not really. Just staying here with Max. I help him practice sometimes, so we will probably do that.”
“You play hockey?”
I snort. “No. I’m terrible. But I can stand still and feed him pucks. Mostly, he works on single-man stuff—skating andstick-handling drills. I think your guys’ coach might work one-on-one with him, too, he said. But I don’t know.”
I flinch inwardly. I probably shouldn’t have said that, in case Nate reads into it as favoritism.
“That’s awesome. I wish I was staying here so I could come play with you guys. Coach is so fucking cool—how many guys would just offer up their time off like that?”
“Not many,” I agree, warming toward Nate even more. “You’re going back to Wyoming? Or Montana?”
“Wyoming for a week to visit my folks,” he says in an exaggerated drawl, which earns the eye roll it deserves from me. “And then the last half of the summer with my uncle in Montana. I’m always torn between being sad to leave school but happy to go back to the horses.”
“And your family?”
“Eh, they’re all right. The horses are the real draw.”
He leans a little bit closer to me as he speaks, free hand flicking through the air as he talks about the summer. I watch his face, a confusing mixture of desire and sadness coagulating in my belly. I like him—I like the way he looks and the way he talks; I especially like the way he seems like a genuinely good person. I like the way he looks at me like I’m a meal, and he hasn’t eaten for days.
Most of all, I like that he doesn’t seem fazed when I ask him not to touch me.
But I’d told him weeks ago that I didn’t want to seriously date, and nothing really has changed since then. I can’t exactly bring it up now, right before he leaves for three months. And the odds of him still being into me when the next semester starts are laughably slim. Even if he were to consider seriously dating a guy, there are so many better options than me.
We lie in bed, not touching, and talk until the sun fully sets and darkness falls outside. Neither of us have put clothes on, and it’s ceased feeling uncomfortable. In fact, it feels natural. I’m pretty sure that if he were to roll over and kiss me, or put his hand on my leg, I wouldn’t have an adverse reaction. My discomfort from earlier suddenly seems very, very long ago.
Halfway through a story about some trouble he and his cousins got into in high school, Nate yawns so widely I can hear his jaw pop. I sit up.
“I’ll head out.”
“I wish you wouldn’t.”
I glance at him when he sits up beside me, scrubbing a hand over his face and hair. I catch a glimpse of black tattoo ink, and forget that it’s time to leave.
“What’s your tattoo of?” I ask him, leaning back to get a better view. He sighs and pivots so I can look without hurting myself.
“No making fun of me,” he warns.
Biting my lip, I look at the long-horned cow skull inked across his lower back. It’s a well-done tattoo, and it’s clear the artist was talented. But it’s also clear why he prefaced showing me with a warning not to rib him about it.
“Tramp stamp?” I ask lightly.
“No laughing!” he replies, so indignantly that I do, in fact, laugh. He peeks over his shoulder at me, smiling and looking not a bit embarrassed. “I lost a bet. But it’s pretty cool, right? Super manly.”
“Super hick,” I correct.
“I think you like it,” he says loftily, making me roll my eyes again even as my lips twitch.
“Okay, I like it a little,” I admit, reaching out and tracingthe very tip of my finger over one of the horns. He shudders and leans back as though trying to get closer to me. Flattening my hand, I run it up and down his back before curling my fingers over his shoulder and pulling him toward me. When he turns his head, I kiss him.
Immediately, he puts a hand on the back of my head to keep me there. We kiss languidly, neither of us trying to turn it into anything else, and by the time we break apart, I’m shaky with the realization that I am completely fucked. I don’t want to be friends with Nate. Not even a little bit. Friends is nowhere near good enough.
When I get home, there is a light on inside the door, but the rest of the apartment is dark. Slipping off my shoes and tucking them away, I abstain from pressing my ear against Max’s door to see if he’s having a nightmare. I don’t know if Luke is still here, and I really don’t want to accidentally get an earful of them having sex. Without turning on any lights, I slip quietly into my room and strip down for bed. I have no intention of taking a shower until I absolutely have to—I want to smell Nate on me for as long as possible.
