I push off the door, stare at the wall. “Listen,” I say, swallowing hard. “I’m sorry I hurt your feelings. I just— There was a minute back there, before you really started talking, when I thought you’d just, like, lied about things. I didn’t understand what was happening. I thought maybe you’d set us up. A bunch of stuff seemed too crazy to be a coincidence. But we’ve been talking for hours now, and I don’t feel that way anymore. I’m not mad anymore. I’m sorry. Can I go now?”
“Of course,” she says. “I just...” She trails off, like she’s confused, and then she touches my arm. No, she doesn’t just touch my arm. She takes my arm. She wraps her hand around my bare forearm and tugs, gently.
The contact is hot and immediate. Her skin is soft. My brain feels dim. Dizzy.
“Stop,” I say.
She drops her hand.
“Why won’t you look at me?” she says.
“I already told you why I won’t look at you, and you laughed at me.”
She’s quiet for so long I wonder if she’s walked away.Finally, she says, “I thought you were joking.”
“Well, I wasn’t.”
More silence.
Then: “Do you always say exactly what you’re thinking?”
“Most of the time, yeah.” Gently, I bang my head against the door. I don’t understand why this girl won’t let me wallow in peace.
“What are you thinking right now?” she asks.
Jesus Christ.
I look up, at the ceiling, hoping for a wormhole or a bolt of lightning or maybe even an alien abduction—anything to get me out of here, this moment, this relentless, exhausting conversation.
In the absence of miracles, my frustration spikes.
“I’m thinking I want to go to sleep,” I say angrily. “I’m thinking I want to be left alone. I’m thinking I’ve already told you this, a thousand times, and you won’t let me go even though I apologized for hurting your feelings. So I guess what I’m really thinking isI don’t understandwhat you’re doing here.Why do you care so much about what I think?”
“What?” she says, startled. “I don’t—”
Finally, I turn around. I feel a little unhinged, like my brain is flooded. There’s too much happening. Too much to feel. Grief, fear, exhaustion. Desire.
Nazeera takes a step back when she sees my face.
She’s perfect. Perfect everything. Long legs and curves. Her face is insane. Faces shouldn’t look like that. Bright, honey-colored eyes and skin like dusk. Her hair is so brownit’s nearly black. Thick, heavy, straight. She reminds me of something, of a feeling I don’t even know how to describe. And there’s something about her that’s made me stupid. Drunk, like I could just stare at her and be happy, float forever in this feeling. And then I realize, with a start, that I’m staring at her mouth again.
I never mean to. It just happens.
She’s always touching her mouth, tapping that damn diamond piercing under her lip, and I’m just dumb, my eyes following her every move. She’s standing in front of me with her arms crossed, running her thumb absently against the edge of her bottom lip, and I can’t stop staring. She startles, suddenly, when she realizes I’m looking. Drops her hands to her sides and blinks at me. I have no idea what she’s thinking.
“I asked you a question,” I say, but this time my voice comes out a little rough, a little too intense. I knew I should’ve kept my eyes on the wall.
Still, she only stares at me.
“All right. Forget it,” I say. “You keep begging me to talk, but the minute I askyoua question, you say nothing. That’s just great.”
I turn away again, reach for the door handle.
And then, still facing the door, I say:
“You know—I’m aware that I haven’t done a good job being smooth about this, and maybe I’ll never be that kind of guy. But I don’t think you should treat me like this, like I’m some idiot nothing, just because I don’t know how to be a douchebag.”
“What? Kenji, I don’t—”
