The words I want to say are trapped on my lips:I wish I could see anything the way you do. But speaking has become impossible. Wyatt shifts closer, just slightly, and when his fingertips skim my hip, I almost shiver right out of my skin.
The loud droning sound of Wyatt’s phone vibrating in his pocket cracks the amber of that moment, and reality crashes in like an unexpected wave. He flinches and takes a sharp step back. I turn my face away, pretending sudden interest in the tray ofdeveloper fluid on the table behind me. But really, I just don’t want Wyatt to see my face. I don’t want him to see that I can’t quite hide how hurt I am that he just…
It’s like he regrets it already.
“I’m sorry. I have to get this,” he says, and I nod without looking up. I stare at the developer and listen to the sound of his footsteps walking away, the subsequent open-shut of the darkroom door.
I exhale and tip my head forward, bracing myself against the table for a moment.Shit.If that phone hadn’t rung when it did…I feel like I know what would have happened next. And it was time. Wasn’t it? We both want this; we both have tried so hard to keep things professional. It seems so stupid to keep fighting it. We’re both adults. I’m not even Wyatt’s student anymore. For fuck’s sake, I’ve spent the nightat his house. If there was ever a boundary there, it’s clearly shredded to bits by now.
I wonder if Wyatt is relieved we got interrupted. Maybe he’s out there thanking whoever is on the other end of the phone for saving his ass from the student throwing herself at him in the darkroom. Maybe he’s already castigating himself for even considering going for it, making a brand-new list of all the reasons we can never be together. A list I’ll probably get the privilege of hearing recited as soon as he comes back, always with the cautious and inherently condescending tone of a man who thinks he knows what’s best for me.
Because that’s what this is all about, isn’t it? Like, let’s be honest—Wyatt isn’t holding himself back because he thinks his professorial pride would be injured by fucking me again. He is on some martyr shit. He thinks if he was with me again, really with me, he’d be doing some kind of irreversible harm to my studently innocence. And while I appreciate that he is considerate of the potential power imbalance, said power imbalance hardly even exists.Doesn’texist. Not really.
So it’s just Wyatt wallowing in the swamp of his own indulgent self-sacrifice.
But he still wants it. All this time that’s passed since we had sex…it’s changed nothing. Wyattwants this. He wantsme. And maybe that’s egotistical to admit, but he literally just told me to stop being modest.
Why are we still pretending? Why am I still letting him decide howIfeel or set the standards for what I should find to be exploitative?
If that phone hadn’t gone off, we’d be kissing right now. His hands in my hair, on my body, slipping beneath the hem of my shirt. And I’d have my tongue in his mouth and my fingers latching around his belt loops as he shoved me back against the table behind us, developer fluid sloshing in the trays and spilling onto the vinyl floor.
My skin still feels too alive where he touched me, that place on my hip burning with the memory of his hand.
If we were together, he’d murmur sweet things in my ear about how much he misses me every time I’m away.
When he comes back…if he comes back…this ends. I’ll cup his face between both my hands, and I’ll kiss him so hard he forgets he’s ever kissed anyone else.
I exhale and slide another print into the developer. I get through just one more of them before the door opens again, and I listen to the sound of Wyatt’s footsteps as he moves through the small maze of the light lock. I turn around, summoning up the courage to take those last steps forward, and immediately stop in my tracks.
Wyatt stands in the entryway, his phone hanging from one hand with the screen still lit up in red scale thanks to some screen-filtering app.
His face is streaked with tears.
27
WYATT
“What happened?” Ely says immediately, closing the distance between us in three quick strides. “Wyatt.”
I’m not really capable of speaking. I’m strangely aware of my face, the way my skin stretches over bone. I feel like I’m wearing a mask. Ely reaches for both my hands and squeezes tight, like she’s trying to anchor me down in this reality—she doesn’t realize, of course, that it’s impossible. I’m already untethering.
“What happened?” Ely says again.
I look at her, finally, reallylookat her. Her eyes are big and worried, but right now, in a way, it’s as if I’m watching her on TV instead of in real life. My fingers twitch against the backs of her hands. I taste metal in my mouth, sour and sickening.
“That was my mom,” I manage at last. The words come out dry, cracked. My tongue feels like a slug that’s been doused in salt: shriveled up and dehydrated. Barely functional.
“Your mom,” Ely says, and I can guess what she’s thinking. My mom—the one I haven’t spoken to since shortly after I came out. The one who let my dad kick me out of my childhood home, thenmay or may not have sent me a Hannah Wilke book in secret—half an apology.
I’m distantly aware that my face is wet. This is all happening to someone else, some other Wyatt. A Wyatt who is crying. Which makes no sense, because the Wyatt that lives in my chest is tight and smooth and unscarred, like a river-weathered stone. Unfeeling.
“Yeah. She. She, uh…” I shake my head, a dog trying to clear water out of its ears. “Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize.”
“It’s my dad,” I manage at last. “He’s…dead.”
28
