Love,
F.
Usually, a message like that would give me butterflies, but now it only fills me with dread. I think of what he said.You wouldn’t deceive me with malicious intentions, would you?
I wouldn’t. That’s why I haven’t said anything yet — it’s not to trick him, but to protect him. I can’t begin to imagine how he’ll react when he finds out the guy he’s been making outwith, having sex with, confessing his secrets to — is me. Simple, boring, unattractive, unintelligent Aaron Wynn.
I take a few minutes to write a response. My first instinct is to thank him and make an excuse to keep my distance, but that’ll look suspicious.
Dear F,
Thank you for saying that. Do you want to meet tomorrow? I think it’s better to speak in person.
Love,
R.
My response is mild, but it’s much harder to write shamelessly about how much I miss him when I know that he’s Jude. Everything was easier when he was a shadowy stranger. Less scary.
His response comes a minute later.
Dear R,
It’s a date.
Love,
F. x.
I stare at the x. That represents a kiss, and for a second, my heart lifts at the sweetness of it. Then I remember how much Jude will resent me — how humiliated he’ll feel — when he realises it’s me.
At lunchtime, I walk through the hallways of the English and Humanities building, with its outdated brick walls and grey lockers. I’ll miss this routine, even the walk to the storeroom. I used to feel anticipation bubbling up in me — excitement, usually arousal too, but today, my legs feel heavy, and my intestines feel like they’re tying themselves into knots.
Earlier today, I told my friends I had to go to the student reception for something. It was a lazy excuse, and I could see in my friends’ eyes that they thought so, too, but they didn’t sayanything. Things have been weird with them ever since the pizza dinner with Jude. After he left, they all asked me what Jude had meant by “hickeys”, and I said he’d mistaken a bruise for a hickey and that I wasn’t “taken”. They didn’t push me about it, but I could tell they were suspicious.
It’s okay, though. After I end this arrangement with Jude, I can go back to spending every lunchtime with my friends and never risk accidentally exposing a hickey again. This thing between Jude and I was always going to end. It’s just ending a lot earlier than I was expecting.
I arrive at Room 12’s door and steel myself. I have to do what I have to do. And in my own round-about way, I’m helping Jude.
The door handle doesn’t budge. What? I try again, but there’s no doubt about it — it’s locked.
My phone buzzes. It’s an email from Jude.
Dear R,
Just letting you know the classroom door’s locked today. I’m not sure why, but we’ll have to postpone our meeting.
F. x.
I look up and down the hallway, but Jude’s not in sight. He must’ve disappeared before writing the email. Good idea. I hastily rush out of the area in case someone sees me.
Damn. Maybe it’s a one-off thing? Hopefully, it’ll be unlocked tomorrow.
It’s still locked the next day. Maybe one of the teachers realised students were using the storeroom, and that’s why they started locking the door?
Jude and I schedule a call that night. I need to figure out a place where we can meet and talk in person because even though it’ll be harder to say the words with him right in front of me, I can’t end things over the phone. I can’t do that to him.
It’s 9PM, and I’m sitting in bed, leaning against the headboard, when he calls.
