“Talk? Like how you talked about me to your friend? Was it at a big frat party? The one where you got the black eye? Was I the center of attention? Does everyone at BU know about us?”
He looks away, guilty. My gut tells me others know.
But how many?
My count is zero.
His?
No telling.
“I don’t go to BU, lady!”
His friend hollers from the other room. I point at the wall. My fury rises even higher that he’s still here and listening to every damn word.
“Other universities know?!”
My hands tremble, making it difficult to pull on my sweater. I hunt for my socks, knowing I need them underneath my boots to prevent blisters on the long walk home. No, it’s too far to walk. I’ll call a car.
“Izzy, let me explain. It will all make sense. I promise.” Panic overtakes his pleading, and he steps toward me. His palms ghost down my arms until I slap them away.
“You don’t need to explain anything to me. I heard your buddy loud and clear. I was a means to an end. One more grade away from graduating. Just a meaningless fuck to pass my class.”
“It wasn’t like that, Isabella. He just said the wrong fucking thing, and you’re blowing it out of proportion.”
I stop with a boot on and a sock dangling from my hand. My ears deceive me that he’s blaming me for getting caught spilling our secret after we agreed to keep it between us.
“I’m overreacting?”
My eyebrows are so high I feel them in my hairline. My voice is steely low. Even his friend has the intelligence to mutter an “oh shit” on Diego’s behalf.
He knows he crossed the line by the look crawling over his face. Irrevocably ruined whatever we were starting.
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean that.”
He reaches for me again out of sheer panic, needing to correct his word choice, but there’s no fixing what’s been done. I dart away while pulling on my boot.
“Isabella, please. I fucked up. I needed someone?—”
“You needed someone? That’s funny because I thought I needed you. And now look where that got me.”
I push past him, stomping down the hall toward my purse. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch his friend casually sampling the pasta from the pan, completely unfazed, as if my world hasn’t just crumbled into pieces.
Diego’s footsteps echo behind me, and before I can grab the strap of my bag, his hand clamps over mine, firm but trembling.
“You needed me?”
His voice is rough and low, as if trying to steady himself. His tongue darts out to wet his lips, a nervous tick.
“All that talk about being an only child, acting like you understood me. Like you knew me. Then you go and betray me like this? Yeah, Diego, I thought I needed you. Turns out, you played me better than anyone else ever could.”
The words hit him like a punch to the gut, his face contorting as if each syllable physically wounds him.
“It wasn’t a game, Iz,” he croaks, tightening his grip over mine. “You’re not a game to me.”
“Then why does it feel like I’m the punchline?”
I yank the strap of my bag free from Diego’s grip, slinging it over my shoulder. The burn of unshed tears pricks my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall here.
