He looks taken aback, and it takes him a moment to respond. “She still lied,” he manages. He’s leaning against the door frame, his limbs buckling.
“She didn’t lie. She just kept something from you. She didn’t want to hurt you.” What I don’t tell him is that, regardless of who was responsible at first, we all have a role in this.
“What?” He squints at me, like he’s trying to focus on putting the words together, but he ultimately shakes his head and gives up. “Did you hear me? I said I miss you.”
I cross my arms. I keep expecting my heart rate to speed up, my hands to start sweating, but they don’t. I feel surprisingly calm, actually.
“You already said that.”
“I don’t want Juliet.” He sighs and looks at his shoes. “She’s not you. She’s never been you. I told her I was coming over here tonight, and she didn’t even fight me on it.”
“You told her?”
“Yeah,” he says. He looks guilty.
“You shouldn’t be here,” I say. “You guys should”—I swallow—“figure things out.” Now my heart is racing. I’msuddenly remembering Rob’s words in the auditorium this afternoon.Don’t do anything stupid. Again.
“What? No.” He lunges forward, but I step back. “I want to be with you. We’ve been friends forever, Rosie. I’ve known you my whole life.”
“Things change.”
“We never should have.”
“That’s life,” I say. “Things happen.”
“I messed up,” he says. “I thought she was something she wasn’t, and I lost everything. I want to make it up to you. I’ll do whatever it takes.” He makes a sweeping gesture with his hand, like he’s including the whole world. “It’syou, Rosie. Please.”
In one swift, albeit crooked, motion he takes my hand in his. It’s been so long since we’ve even spoken that I’d forgotten what it’s like to just be with him. “Please,” he says again.
I look at him, his eyes soft and his forehead sweating. It’s Rob. The only Rob there is ever going to be. No one will ever feel so comfortable or remember my life the way he can. Maybe it’s worth another chance. Even to see if we could just be friends again.
But then I think about Len. About bio and the play and piano and his hands on mine and eating Twizzlers in my room and the way my head feels like it’s humming whenever he’s around.
“I need to think about it,” I say.
He drops my hand. “I understand,” he says, but he looks disappointed. “What now?”
“I think you need to go back to Juliet,” I say. “You need to make things right.”
He nods. “Can’t I just stay with you a little longer? We could watch a movie or something?”
“Not right now,” I say. “You need to go home.”
“I can’t go home,” he says sadly. “I don’t even know where that is anymore.” Rob pinches the bridge of his nose with his thumb and pointer finger. He looks tired, and I notice dark circles under his eyes, the color of charcoal dust.
I reach out and put a hand on his arm, and he pulls me toward him, into a hug. But it doesn’t feel like it used to. It doesn’t make me feel happy or excited or even comforted. It doesn’t really make me feel anything at all.
I slide out of his arms and pull the door closed, sitting down on the floor when I’m back inside. I hear his footsteps down the stairs, and then it’s quiet, so still I can hear myself breathing. When I was younger, I used to dread being alone. I would convince myself that something terrible had happened to my parents, that they had been in some kind of car accident or something and they were never coming back. I would sit in the corner of my kitchen, terrified and white-knuckled, and waitfor them to pull up the driveway. But right now I want to be alone. I want all the time in the world to think about what Rob has just said and what I should do. Could there ever be an us again?
The doorbell rings again. I sit up with a start, annoyed. I can’t believe he’s come back. I just told him to give me some space. He has no patience, never has.
I yank the door open, already talking, but of course it’s not Rob. It’s Len. He’s dressed in jeans and a white button-down, and he looks so adorably sexy, I just want to leap into his arms right here.
A bouquet of violets is hanging down by his side, the flowers pointed toward the ground. They’re my favorite flowers. I used to pick them in Famke’s garden and bring them home to my mom. Rob thinks I like roses best, and I’ve never corrected him because it’s so cute when he says “Roses for Rosie.” Except my name isn’t really Rosie, and I don’t like roses. I haven’t liked them since I was pricked by a thorn when I was eight years old.
“Hi,” I start, but Len just shakes his head. He’s looking at me in that way that tells me that whatever I’m about to say, he already knows what it is.
“You have to think about it?” he says.
