Once I come inside her again, she pulls away, hands trembling. Her mood instantly changes. Her eyes shoot daggers at me.
“What is wrong? You can talk to me.”
“I failed my midterm exam,” she lies.
She won’t admit her true feelings.
I’ll get it out of her somehow.
She stomps into the bathroom and locks the door.
I run my fingers through my hair.
Lilac can’t run from her emotions forever.
Lilac
Irvin told me to meet him in the library on campus, which was strange because we have a library at home. And it’s midnight. The library is open twenty-four hours for people who like to study.
What was up with Irvin last night, asking me questions about him not fucking me anymore? A part of me wanted to admit that if he did, I would be somewhat upset with him. He’s up to something, but I can’t pinpoint what it is. That’s why I told him I would fuck Jameson. As long as he’s not aware that I suspect he’s the killer, I can play his games.
Irvin leans against a wooden desk with his hand tucked into his pocket. The dim lights glow, and the library is bare. The warm air cools my face, and I unwrap my scarf from my neck, then set my book bag down on the checkered floor.
I need to keep my cool around Irvin and not show any emotions. I feel so shameful for getting annoyed with him for asking those silly questions. I’m not the one who’s obsessed with him—it’s the other way around.
I fold my arms across my chest.
“Why did you want me to meet you here?”
He strokes my cheek, grabs my hand, leads me to a study room, and locks the door. The room is small, with a tiny window, a basic wooden desk, and two chairs.
I wrap my arms around his neck and lean in for a kiss, but he denies me. I need him to believe I still want him. If he knows I suspect him, I could be next on his list. If he’s the killer, how would I handle it? Could I truly let him go?
The guilt of wanting him eats at me like a disease.
I shake my head and lean in for another kiss. Irvin turns his head.
Odd.
Why is he denying my kisses? Does my breath smell like shit or something?
I place my hand over my mouth and blow into my palm—my breath is fine.
He steps back and slides his fingers into his pockets. His eyes fix on my mouth, then he licks his lips.
“I need your help with something. I need motivation to study,” he says, his tone husky.
I frown, rocking on my heels.
“You study at graduate level, and I’m undergrad. How can I possibly help you with your studies?”
And why is he denying me kisses? I want to ask, but I refrain. I shouldn’t want his touch. I shouldn’t care if he doesn’t want to kiss me, but it bothers me.
He closes the small blinds in the window, shielding the room from the cloudy sky. The weather has been nothing but cloudy, rainy, and cold lately. Sometimes it reminds me of Seattle.
My heart sinks to the bottom of my stomach—but in a good way. I perch in the wooden chair, yank out my laptop from my backpack, and set it down on the table.
Irvin closes the laptop, moves it aside, and stands in front of me.
