“Bailey—”
“Please. I need to think. I need space to process what just happened.”
“Okay. But we’re talking about this. Tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow,” she agrees.
She gathers her laptop and her bag carefully. She avoids looking at me as she heads for the door.
“Bailey.”
She stops walking but doesn’t turn around.
“For what it’s worth, I meant what I said. It’s not an act.”
She’s silent for a heartbeat. “I know. That’s what scares me.”
Then she’s gone.
I stand alone in her workspace. The desk is a complete mess, and half of my shirt is missing buttons. I can still smell her perfume lingering in the air.
Her computer screen is still glowing softly. I move closer and see what she’d been working on before I interrupted her. The animation of the girl made of paper. But there’s a new scene at the end. Two silhouettes reach for each other across empty space. They’re getting close, almost touching, but never quite making contact.
The image hits me in the chest like a physical blow.
That’s us. We’re reaching but never quite connecting. Getting close but not close enough.
I run both hands through my hair and try to think clearly.
What am I doing, really? I must be crazy.
For a long moment, I stare at the almost-touch animation, and it hits me, sudden and sharp, like the snap of a thread pulled too tight.
It’s never going to work.
No matter how much I want it or how hard I try to pretend otherwise, we were built for almosts. There will always be that aching space in between.
11
Bailey
Iwake up Wednesday morning with my body aching in places that remind me exactly what I did last night.
My alarm is blaring. The sunlight is too bright through my curtains, and my sheets are tangled around my legs like I spent the night fighting them.
I reach over and silence the alarm with a groan.
Then I bury my face in my pillow and try to convince myself that yesterday was a mistake. It was only a lapse in judgment brought on by too much tension and insufficient sleep. It doesn’t mean anything. It can’t mean anything.
Except my body disagrees. My skin still tingles where Daniel touched me. My lips are slightly swollen from kissing, and my heart is doing backflips whenever I think about how he’d looked at me.
I force myself out of bed and into the shower, but the hot water doesn’t wash away the memories. If anything, it makes them more vivid. I can still feel his hands sliding up my thighs and hear the rough edge in his voice when he’d asked if I was sure.
I get dressed on autopilot.
My phone buzzes while I’m making coffee.
Gretchen: You’ve been radio silent for days. Are you alive? Did the fake boyfriend murder you?
