My knuckles brush the wood in a knock. I tell myself if she doesn’t answer, I’ll leave it alone. Truth is, I don’t know what I’d do if she did.
But she doesn’t answer. The place is too still to tell if she’s asleep or just done with me. Either way, I probably deserve it.
I back off, rake a hand through my hair, and head for my room. The bed feels colder than it should. I last maybe ten minutes before I’m restless and on my feet again.
Bare feet hit cold floorboards. I stop at her door, hand braced on the frame, already knowing it’s a bad idea. I knock anyway.
Nothing.
“Tessa.” Her name comes out like something between a warning and a plea. “Open up.”
The door cracks open just enough for her to look at me. “What?” she asks. Not rude. She just sounds tired, and I can’t say I blame her.
“I shouldn’t have said it like that.” No excuses. It’s the truth.
“Which part?”
“All of it.”
She lifts a shoulder. “You weren’t wrong, though.”
“That’s not the point.”
“Then what is the point, Clay?” She sighs, the sound sharp enough to cut. “We can’t even talk without it turning into a fight.” Her arms fold tight across her chest, more defense than defiance. “I can’t keep up with your hot and cold.”
“That makes two of us.”
Silence presses down like a weight.
“I keep trying to handle this the right way,” I admit. “Keep us out of trouble. Keep it from turning into something it shouldn’t.”
A short, humorless sound slips out of her. “How’s that goin’ for you?”
“About as well as you’d think.”
She looks at me like she’s trying to read a book with half the pages missing. “Then why are you at my door?”
My hand’s still on the doorframe, like that’s the only thing keeping me steady. “Because I can’t stop thinking about you. About you asleep on that couch, and the way you looked whenyou saw me sitting there. Like I was both the problem and the answer, and you didn’t know which one to choose.”
Her breath falters. She lifts her hand, trying to cover the sound, but I catch it.
“I shouldn’t be here,” I say.
“Maybe you shouldn’t be,” she agrees, her voice softer now. “But you are.”
“Yeah.”
She shifts, the braid she must’ve tied since coming to her room rests over her shoulder. My eyes follow it, taking in her creamy skin, before I force myself to look away.
“Clay.”
“Tess.”
Her name comes out rough, like it’s been sitting in my throat too long. Something shifts in her eyes before she steps aside.
“Come in,” she says.
I do. The room’s small and warmer than the hall. It smells like her, familiar enough to make my chest tighten.
