Whatever I was expecting, it wasn’t a compliment. “Oh. Thank you. I thought…well. I felt like I was a little awkward.” Then I laugh, which isdefinitelyawkward.
“Not at all. And you were the perfect candid photographer. You kept everything discreet—you let the photographs become part of the background noise. You were part of the night, not an intrusion. That’s the kind of skill that takes years to perfect.” One corner of his mouth quirks up. “But I have a feeling you have always been good at that. You make it very easy for people to be around you.”
No one has ever told me anything like that before. Or at least not in that tone of voice, low and wrapped in the warmth of sincerity.
“I’m good at blending into the background,” I say, a bit dryly, but he immediately shakes his head.
“That’s not what I meant. You could never blend in.”
I can’t rip my gaze away from his. I feel like his eyes are searing into my skin, tearing past all the onion-paper layers I’ve constructed between the outside world and my soft and vulnerable underbelly.
“You’re blushing,” he murmurs, and god, that only makes it worse. I stand still, so still, hardly dare to breathe as he lifts one hand and grazes the crest of my burning cheek with the backs of his fingers.
He draws closer, the pair of us listing in toward one another as if we’re caught in some sordid magnetism. The humid New York City summer has nothing on what simmers in that negative space between us. Or the heat that’s bloomed between my thighs.
In that split second, my heart hammering in my chest and hislips parting, slightly damp from the outward flicker of his tongue, I almost think—
But then he pulls his hand away and roughly drags it through his hair, his gaze dropping to the asphalt. “Sorry. Um. I shouldn’t— Anyway. I’ll let you…Your car is probably almost here, right?”
“Right,” I say, before I’ve even glanced back at my phone. Suddenly the only thing I want in the entire universe is to become Kitty Pryde from the X-Men and develop the mutant ability to sink down into the ground and out of sight.
Wyatt gives this brittle laugh, still not quite looking at me, and says, “Right. Okay. I’ll…I’m just taking the subway, so…I’ll see you back on campus. Bye then.”
Of course, once he’s gone—once I’m sitting in the dark back seat of the Uber driver’s Toyota Corolla and trying not to get sick as we lurch from light to light—all I can think about is how stupid it was for me to let him go.
Because in that moment, I think…if I’d been brave enough…if I’d kissed him, he wouldn’t have stopped me.
Stop thinking like that,I snap at myself. He’s trying so fucking hard to be respectful, and I need to try at least half as hard to respect him back. Especially in a professional environment. Which this was. He came with me to Shabbos as my mentor because I was psychologically incapable of going alone. The last thing I owe him, after all that, is bulldozing hisvery fucking clearly communicated boundaries.
But telling myself that doesn’t do much to stem the tide of anxiety that wells up in my gut alongside the carsickness-related acid reflux.
Maybe I shouldn’t have gone tonight in the first place. Maybe all of this was a mistake. I got good photos, I think—editing will reveal all—but was it worth it? Michal and her friends are perfectly nice people. Generous. Hospitable. That’s not the problem.
The problem, as usual, is me. Because I’m pathologically incapable of not overthinking things, and it fucks me over every time.
Right now, less than ten miles away in Crown Heights, my family might still be having their own Shabbos dinner. My father singing, pounding the table with his fist in an imaginary rhythm, several wines in. My brother Gedaliah is boring everyone to tears asking for another retelling of the story about Yaakov and Esau. Gedaliah’s twin, Sholom Ber, will have figured out a way to sneak undiluted Bartenura while no one is watching—although our oldest sister, Malka, got wise to that around the time I left. My mother will have put the youngest children to bed—only, god, Levi Yitzchok must be ten now, old enough to stay up. Did my parents have more kids since I left? Do I have siblings I’ve never even met?
I wonder if my sisters are there or if they’re having their own dinners at their own houses with new families.
Dvora must be married now. She must have at least two kids—it’s been long enough. Possibly more.
I suck in a shaky breath, and shit, I’m about to cry in this cab. Which is worse than crying on the subway, because at least on the subway no one gives a shit about you. I can’t cry in front of Sergey the Uber driver.
I fumble with my phone, flipping to the Messenger app, and text Wyatt.
Me:Let me know when you get home safe okay?
The ellipsis shows up almost immediately. I stare at the screen waiting for his reply to appear, like a freak. Luckily it doesn’t take long.
Wyatt:Almost back. What about you?
Me:Ten more minutes. Or at least it better be. I’m getting carsick.
He sends the wastebasket emoji as a response. At least I can count on Wyatt to make me smile, even when I feel like trash.
There’s music playing when I make it back to the apartment. I can hear it from the landing below our floor, which means either my roommates are hosting a party I wasn’t invited to or Diego is having another emo breakdown. (The last breakdown was because he rewatchedSailor Moon Rand was driven to the edge by the tragedy of Tuxedo Mask’s star-crossed love with that alien who was being mind controlled by an evil flower.)
But when I open the front door, it’s not to a rager or to Diego crying on the sofa.
