Leo’s eyes fell on the blanket, and he fiddled with it between his thumb and forefinger. I saw, rather than heard, his heavy exhale.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “It was a dick move, losing you at the party. I could’ve tried harder to find you. I should’ve tried harder.”
“Why didn’t you?” I asked.
He parted his lips, then seemed to think better of it and closed them. In the end, he shrugged, eyes darting away. “I don’t know.”
We sat there in silence. Was I supposed to force him to talk? I didn’t want to interrogate him, but it was like I was the only one who had a stake in this conversation.
Finally, he spoke. “Why don’t you think I want you?” He looked at me a little warily, like he was afraid.
I made a helpless gesture. “When we’re in bed, you never touch me.”
I expected him to argue, to insist that he did kiss me and cuddle. Instead, his gaze flicked away, his body folding in on itself. I waited for him to explain, to say anything, because right now, all I could see was undeniable proof he’d purposely avoided touching my most intimate place.
My throat suddenly felt painfully dry. Shit.
I pushed myself off the bed, stumbling slightly in the process. I needed to get out of here before I something I couldn’t take back — like cry in front of him. Or maybe even yell.
I moved to the front door, feeling disoriented. I pulled on my shoes, which was extra humiliating because it was impossible to pull on shoes gracefully while standing up.
I felt stupid. That was the biggest thing I realised. How dumb had I been thinking that he liked me?
But no. He was the one who cuddled and smiled and laughed at my jokes, the one who’d given me a nickname, the one who’d made me feel special.
I wasn’t dumb. I’d been tricked. And that tripled my anger at him. I knew if I expressed it, though, I’d look crazy. So, I clenched my jaw to prevent myself from saying anything.
“Where are you going?” Leo asked in a quiet, almost bewildered voice.
How could he be surprised? Did he think I’d stick around and settle to be his fuck buddy?
I didn’t reply and left the apartment.
I made it to the street before I started to cry. I couldn’t even blame the wind in my eyes because the air was completely still.
The next morning, my face smushed against a pillow, I reached for my phone. I told myself not to expect anything, but I was already imagining a text, missed call, or even a voicemail, even though no one under 40 left voicemails anymore.
There was nothing, and I felt terrible all over again and angry at myself for even having a second of hope.
“I know you’re not supposed to say this,” I said, “because you’re meant to have self-respect or whatever. But sometimes I think I should’ve just been Leo’s sex-teacher-friend-with-benefits, because at least that way, I’d still get to spend time with him.”
Sitting across the table from me were two expressions: the first sympathetic but slightly uncomfortable. The second impatient.
“That’s nice and all,” said Rome, to whom the second expression belonged, “but you’ve summoned me to this cafe with no explanation, made me sit down at a table with some randomI’ve never met before, then started talking about Leo, which, in case you’ve forgotten, is who you’ve been talking about in every Intro to B Law class for the past two weeks.”
“I’m Atticus Sinclair,” said Atticus, helpfully. He offered Rome his hand.
Rome looked at it with faint surprise before taking it. “That makes a lot of sense. You do look like a male model.”
“Thank you,” Atticus replied, sounding unsure.
“That’s how Eddie described you, so now I see what he was talking about. I’m Rome, by the way.”
“Short for Roman?” Atticus asked after they’d let go of each other’s hands.
That, at least, pulled me from my daze of self-pity. I cracked a smile. “No, not short for Roman. Go on, Rome. What’s your actual first name?”
Rome shot me a withering glare.
