“I’m sorry,” I say again.
To my shock, he sits beside me, arm pressed against mine. “This night is depressing as hell, hasn’t it?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m sorry if I was harsh—”
“God, Henry,” I say. He’s making me feel worse, being nice like this. “Don’t apologise. I’m sorry. I understand if you hate me now.”
“I could never hate you, Noah. Besides, I was already on edge. Ruby and Jasmine almost catching us …”
Would it be so bad if people knew?I want to ask. I bite my lip.
“One day we might be caught. We’re never as careful as we could be.”
“They won’t,” I insist.
I focus on the carpet but feel Henry staring at me. Is he putting the pieces of the puzzle together?
I can’t tell if he figures out why I’m acting the way I do. If he does, he doesn’t freak out. He does something worse.
“I think we should stop.”
If I were standing up, I’d fall over. I can’t say anything in response.
“I think it’s the smartest thing to do. Don’t you agree?” His exhale is unsteady.
If I spoke, my voice would betray me. In the end, I nod. I won’t try to change his mind. I’d only expose how much I want him in the process, and more importantly, it would feel like I’m having to convince him about something as intimate as this would make me feel wrong and dirty.
“Noah.” He wraps his arms around me. “You’re my best friend. You know I love you, don’t you?”
I can’t answer.
Henry leans back so he can look at me. “Don’t you?”
“Of course,” I say. “I love you too.” It hurts for me to say those words because the way I mean them is different from the way Henry means them.
“You don’t have to say that.”
“Why not? I meant it.”
“You sounded … sounded like you didn’t mean — whatever.”
“I mean it,” I protest, though my voice wobbles. It sounds like I’m lying.
Thankfully, Henry drops the topic. We sit there. Music echoes. Through the walls, I hear the shrieking laughter of a couple.
Henry’s arms are warm around me, but my body is ice cold, my heart fracturing.
21
Eve: A Boy's Bed
I’ve slept in. Through the slits of my eyelids, blinding sunlight streams through the windows, illuminating my bedroom.
No, not my bedroom — the walls are a bluer shade of white, and the pillow under my head is softer than my one at home. I went to the party last night with Ruby. This is her room.
I roll over in the bed, expecting to see Ruby’s caramel-brown hair beside me. Whenever we have sleepovers, we always wake up at the same time as if we have the same sleep patterns. Or maybe when one of us wakes, we’re as loud as an alarm clock, waking the other.
