When the knock comes, I’m so relieved I almost sag to the floor. Instead, I close my eyes and listen as he comes in and jams the chair under the door handle. It’s become automatic at this point.
When I hear him sit down, I open my eyes. As always, it takes a moment for his silhouette to come into focus.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hi.”
He clears his throat. “How have you been?”
“Fine,” I say shortly, before regretting my rudeness. I don’t want to reveal how much he’s affected me. “You?”
“Yeah. Good, I guess.”
We’re silent for a second, and then I blurt out, “What happened?” It sounds like an accusation because it is.
“I’m sorry. I really am. I know it wasn’t fair of me to be distant all of a sudden. What I said was true, though — stuff did happen.”
“Stuff happens every day, to everyone,” I say.
“It was…big stuff.”
He sounds wretched, and I can’t help but soften.
“Alright. I understand. We can stop meeting, if you want. I don’t want to tie you to this commitment —”
“That’s the problem, though,” he says. “I don’t want to stop seeing you.”
Warmth pools in my belly in spite of myself.
“I meant every word I said last Monday, but I’ve been feeling anxious about it. I worried all week,” he says.
“About what?”
When he speaks, his words are careful. “Realistically, this isn’t going to work. Even if we manage to keep meeting up forthe rest of the year, it’ll end when we graduate. It’s inevitable we’ll get hurt.”
“Not necessarily,” I joke. “You might be sick of me by then.”
“Hey,” he says. “I’m serious.”
I match his tone. “I know. I’ve thought about it too. At best, this is just a distraction. At worst…”It’ll cut like a knife when you have to leave.“But — and I know this is the most illogical idea in the world, and maybe I’m just a masochist — but…I think it’s worth it.”
“You think?”
“Yes,” I say. “I told you last week. I like you too.”
“But what if…” he begins, voice shaky. “What if things go wrong? What if we find out each other’s identities? What if you figure out who I am, and you’re disgusted, and you hate me—”
I touch him for the first time this afternoon. Just a brush on his wrist. He tenses, then leans into it. “I won’t hate you. I promise. Maybe I don’t know your name or your face, but I know you’re a good person.”
“But how do you know that?” he asks. “How do you know everything I’ve told you isn’t a lie?”
“Is it?” I ask.
“I haven’t been completely truthful. I leave out details —”
I wave a hand, even though he can’t see it. “I do the same. Both of us have to, to protect our anonymity. You wouldn’t deceive me with malicious intentions, would you?”
“N-no.” His hand trembles. “I’m scared this is going to end in disaster,” he whispers.
