He can feel it too, I think. I catch him looking at me when he thinks no one is watching. Our elbows bump over breakfast, and my skin burns up every time we touch. His cheeks pinken when I smile at him. It’s like we’re kids again, giddy with the secret of a first kiss.
We came down on a Friday—Wyatt had to teach until late Thursday afternoon—so we leave in as little time after the funeral as we came before it. The goodbye is full of tears, just as the hello was. But at least this time there’s no questioning motives: Wyatt’s mother can’t stop smiling as she hugs him, holding on tight as if she never wants to let go. Liam makes Wyatt promise to text him as soon as he gets back to New York and even snaps a photo of the pair of them together for Instagram—although Wyatt, of course, insists Liam doesn’t name him in the picture.
“Am I ever allowed to put you on Instagram?” I tease him once we’re back in the car and well on the road. “You know candid photography is kind of my thing.”
Wyatt shudders dramatically. “Please don’t. I’d rather not have to look at my own face on film.”
“But it’s such a nice face.”
“Says you. I’m the one who has to stare at it in the mirror every morning.”
I wish he could see himself the way I do. The way everyone else does. I have to actively order myself not to start psychoanalyzing all the reasons why Wyatt might not like to have his photo taken. It’s his choice, and that should be all I need to know.
“It seemed like a good trip,” I venture at last. “Your family seemed happy to see you.”
A small smile curves at his mouth. “Yeah. They did, didn’t they? You know my mom already said she wants me to come back down for Christmas? I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop.”
“I don’t think there is another shoe. I think she really means it.”
He laughs softly, incredulously. At least the envy is quiet today, nothing but a faint buzz in the pit of my stomach. It’s getting easier to be happy for him. To stop running through scenarios in my mind of what my parents would do if I showed up on their doorstep.
Maybe this is enough. Maybe I don’t need them—I have Wyatt now. I have Ophelia, and Diego, and Michal. I have my sobriety. I have a whole life that they aren’t a part of.
And it’s a pretty good life.
¦
We don’t make it back to New York until after midnight. I’m tired enough to consider calling an Uber just to make it from LaGuardia back to my apartment, but I’m also cheap, and it’s atwenty-minute bus ride. I find myself dozing off as the M60 rattles its way down Astoria Boulevard, my weekend bag on the floor clutched between my ankles. My head keeps tipping over onto Wyatt’s shoulder, and he keeps pushing me back upright, even though I wish he’d leave it.
He’s been kind of like this the whole last half of the trip home, really.
The car ride from Wyatt’s hometown back to the airport was normal. We listened to a podcast and had an obnoxiously pretentious debate about the intersection between visual art and conservation during which Ansel Adams was quoted atleasttwice. Wyatt’s hand rested tangled up with mine between the two front seats, easy and companionable.
Security at Raleigh-Durham was the usual clusterfuck, and by the time we were settled in our tiny economy seats, it was hard to get a conversation off the ground. At one point I offered Wyatt my airplane peanuts, and I swear he didn’t even realize I was saying his name the first three times.
And now the bus. My fatigue. The shoulder pillow that refuses to be a proper shoulder pillow.
Wyatt shakes me all the way awake at my stop. “We’re here.”
I blink the blur out of my eyes and follow him out onto the sidewalk. I keep trailing behind him, but he slows down every time, chivalrous even at one-thirty in the morning. I consider making us stop at one of the late-night shawarma joints, but honestly, even white sauce isn’t worth delaying bedtime.
Only one thing is worth that.
We sneak into my apartment as quietly as possible, Wyatt carrying my bag for me as I lead the way back to my bedroom.
He sets the bag down next to my dresser, then lurks awkwardly in the doorway, both hands stuffed deep in his pockets. “You good?” he whispers.
“Close the door,” I tell him.
“What?”
“Close the door.”
He obeys, although he still looks confused about it—the absolute idiot—so I do what I can to put his confusion to rest. I kiss him.
For a moment he kisses me back, pinned between me and the shut door with his hands on my hips. But too quickly he breaks away, turning his face away from mine and using that grasp of my hips to push me—gently—back.
“This isn’t a good idea,” he says, and something cold shoots into my gut.
