He spits, rinses his mouth, wipes his face, and heads for the door. I stay there a bit longer, putting on my face cream. Then Istep out of the bathroom. He’s lying on his back now, wearing a black sleeveless shirt, in bed.
His grey shorts ride low on his hips, one knee bent. His eyes are on the ceiling, not on me. He doesn’t even glance my way.
Great.
I dry off, slip into a clean tee and boxers, then just stand there like an idiot, staring at the bed like it’s a trap.
I clear my throat. "So… I guess we’re both sleeping here."
He shrugs. "I’m not kicking you to the floor."
I hesitate. "There’s not much room."
He finally looks at me. "I’m not gonna eat you, Rava."
I roll my eyes and walk over, slowly. The space next to him looks way smaller up close.
I sit on the edge first, feeling awkward as hell. Then I lie down stiffly, as close to the edge as possible, like touching him might set something off.
The air between us is thick.
We still haven’t talked about earlier, about him dragging me out of the club, about how I let him.
I almost say something. My mouth opens, then I shut it again. Instead, I turn to the side, my back to him. A second later I hear the sheets shift.
He turns too, same direction. Now we’re facing the same way, barely inches apart, not touching, but every breath feels like it might crash into his.
My heart’s beating way too fast.
I swallow. "Good night," I whisper.
He doesn’t say anything. He just yanks the sheet tighter to his side. I blink into the dark.
Seriously?
I clench my jaw and tug the sheet back, petty and pissed off.
Screw him.
A few minutes pass. I try to breathe normal, try to sleep. Then I feel a push from behind.
Subtle, but there. His knee, or his hip, something.
I shift forward, trying not to fall off the bed. Then he does it again.
I snap. "For fuck’s sake," I hiss, rolling onto my back. "Are you serious right now?"
He doesn’t move.
"Why do you hate me so much?" I ask.
That gets him. He turns slowly. Silence.
"Why do you hate me so much?" I ask again. I’m tired. I’m done pretending I don’t fucking feel it, every look, every silence, every time he pulls away like I’ve burned him.
Gio turns toward me. "I don’t hate you."
"You sure about that, Gio?"
