But Pia doesn’t reply to me. At least not by speaking. Instead, she tilts her head up, her chin slightly extended, like it often is when she’s performing, like she’s challenging the world to stand up and listen. And then she starts to sing.
“What I want,” she begins, staring at me, “is you for the rest of time.”
My breath halts. She’s teasing me. No,tauntingme.
“No, that’s … that’s,” I stutter. “That’s too much. Too obvious.”
“Is it?” she says, feigning innocence.
“We should just say, ‘What I want isthatfor the rest of time.’”
“You think so?”
“Yes, the rest of the song has been directed at the other woman. If we then just outright say ‘I wantyoufor the rest of time’…that’s like far too obvious.”
“Hmm,” Pia says, but she dutifully writes the last line and, after a second or two, I see she writes it as I suggest.
And I don’t know why, but I feel a wave of disappointment wash over me.
CHAPTER 7
PIA
The song is done. And that’s what I want.
Or what I thought I wanted.
But now, we’ve stopped singing, and silence fills the room. The pen lies on the table next to a piece of paper covered in my writing and doodles. The sun outside has begun its descent, bringing a buttery-yellow evening glow to the room. Cassie is drinking from a bottle of water. And I have smoked all my cigarettes and drank more than my share of the minibar.
There’s nothing else for us to do but say goodbye. But neither of us say it. Neither of us moves.
I fiddle with a strand of hair like I have nothing better to do, and I know I should tell her to go. I should make out like I have somewhere to be, people to see, but I don’t.
The truth is, something tethered us together when we kissed. I can’t explain it, can’t name it, but I feel it. It’s like a thread attached to us both, and it’s stubborn and strong and long and I don’t have scissors sharp enough to cut it, and even if I did…
“You should go,” I blurt, fed up and frustrated with this stupid situation.Shekissed me.Shemade me feel this way – all tied up in knots with the thread she wrapped around me when she cradled my face in the smooth palm of her hand – and it’s not okay.
“Oh,” she says, and it’s a short sigh of a word, but it’s also soft and musical and full of the air I loved feeling on my lips the moment before she pressed her mouth to mine.
I’m full of relief when she doesn’t move.
I’m full of fear as she continues to stare at me.
I realise then that she’s daring me to ask her again. To tell her to go again.
“It’s for the best,” I explain. To her. To myself.
Because if she keeps standing there, leaning her back against the cupboard opposite my bed, I’m going to rush over there, grab her by her hips and push her up on the wooden top so I can thrust my body between her thighs.
“What’s for the best?” she says so slowly and carefully, her voice doesn’t sound like her own.
“You should go,” I repeat, standing up. Her eyes track me as I take small steps over to her.
“Why do you want me to go?” she asks, a little more hurried, and sure enough, there’s a tremor of trepidation in her eyes.
“I didn’t say Iwantedyou to go,” I say, getting closer.
“Oh,” she says again. This time the note is a higher pitch.
