“I don’t mean it that way,” he adds. “It’s cool you’re there—Lane has been way more chill since he started taking his bad moods out on you.”
That gets a smile out of me. The truth is my roommate has been much more relaxed for a while now. I don’t want to contradict Lewis, but those bad moods he mentioned have all but vanished. Ever since we started our movie nights, things have shifted between me and Lane, and it feels good—though it still stresses me out to think he could put an end to me crashing there at any time. Staying at his was only ever meant to be a stopgap, and I’ve been on his couch for nearly a month and a half now. I’m carrying on as if it were no big deal, hoping that Lane doesn’t randomly lose his shit at some point. I make sure I stock up the fridge every week; I clean the living room; I scour the bathroom. I make sure I never venture down the hallway that leads to his bedroom—the one with the mysterious spare room I’ve never seen. I asked him about it once and he shut me down so fast I never brought it up again. He’s oddly protective about that space, guarding it like it’s sacred or something, and I can’t help wondering what the hell he’s hiding in there.
Lewis’s voice snaps me back to reality.
“What?” I ask him.
“I felt something, right there.”
I move back to where he’s pointing. “Here?”
“Yeah, like an electric current.”
I switch positions and move around the table for a little extra space, crouching down and placing a finger on his outer thigh, tracing the length of a large scar I hadn’t noticed before. When I press down harder, his leg jerks.
“It’s your scar.” I stand. “It’s normal for it to be a little more sensitive, it looks like the cut was deep. Nerves get more responsive after trauma. How did you do that?”
“My dad builds tree houses, I help out every summer. Six or seven years ago, I hurt myself with one of his saws, a piece of wood landed right there. It was pretty major.”
“I can imagine; though it could have been worse.”
“True, a little higher up and I would’ve lost Woody.”
“Woody?” It takes me a moment to get it. “You dumbass!”
He pouts, and I burst out laughing, shaking my head. He’s a nice guy, when he’s not busy teasing me. Professor Moretti wanders over to ask me some questions, watch me work, and take notes, and Lewis makes my job a whole lot easier. When the coach orders us to switch, I thank Lewis. I barely have time to take a step back when he smacks a kiss on my cheek, and I feel myself blush as I watch him head to the pool.
“Next week it’s my turn,” Donovan crows, nudging me with his shoulder before taking a running leap and dive-bombing into the pool.
I pace in front of the massage table, suddenly on edge as the second group arrives. Kirk is among them. He’s dripping wet still, and as I watch him towel himself down, I can’t peel my eyes away.
“Come on, guys, get settled in!”
The athletes scatter, and I don’t know what I want right now. I’m dying to touch Kirk, but I’m not sure I can handle him blanking me. This would be the perfect time to reconnect, though. My nerves are fluttering. The air is so hot all of a sudden, I’m struggling to breathe. I think I might be chickening out, but ultimately, fate decides for me.
“Hey, Lois.”
My tongue has swollen to three times its usual size. I don’t say a word as Kirk sits down on the table, stretching out and tugging at his wet swim shorts, his face blank, his eyes turned away. I don’t understand how we got to this point, how he can act like we’re two total strangers. The worst part is I can’t find my anger. All I feel is misery.
“Watch out, I’ve got a contracture—”
“Right here?” I finish for him, my fingers brushing his inner thigh.
“Yeah.”
He breathes out through pinched lips. This is his weak spot. How could I forget? I spent whole hours massaging this exact square inch of skin, and I’m so sad he felt the need to remind me.
My fingers shake as I jam them into the tub of cream, and when I reach for his leg, all my technique has deserted me.
“How are classes?” I hear myself ask.
“Good.”
“Great.”
I’m breathless, beads of sweat trickling down my back. I wait for him to bat the question back to me, but nothing comes.
“How are your parents doing?”
