I’m considering that the length of his sentences is connected to his level of comfort, when he abruptly turns to me andasks, “If someone said something about you, would you want to know?”
I take a deep breath and attempt to hide the awkward, sinking feeling in my chest.
I don’t want to know. I never want to know.
Locke’s throat bobs when he gulps. I bite hard on my tongue to avoid my face twisting in fear.
I don’t want to know. Ineedto know.
“Tell me.”
If Locke was a storm when he walked in, he’s a drizzle now. Soft and unassuming. He’s rocking side-to-side, teetering on the edge of the couch, making me think it’s only a matter of time before a flood of emotion comes back; The same as when he entered the apartment.
After taking a deep inhale, he says, “I was walking out of class the other day. A guy stopped me. He started talking about you.”
My skin runs cold. Of course he did.
I’m not surprised my unwarranted criticism has bled into other majors and cohorts. The men of our engineering college don’t have anything better to do than gossip about women they barely know.
Before I start going through the list of boys it could be, Locke clears his throat.
“He said some stuff. I didn’t like any of it.”
I uncross my legs to bend them at the knees, bringing them to my chest and not caring about what skin is showing or where the hem of my lounge top falls. He’s not looking at me, anyways, too focused on the rundown carpet in front of us.
“Like what?” I can’t stop myself.
Locke shifts uncomfortably. It’s a sick satisfaction for me. For once, I’m not the only one awkward and uneasy talking about this.
“I’m not going to repeat the words.” He grunts. “But they alluded to your activities. In the program. With other people.”
He doesn’t have to say anything else. It’s enough confirmation that what the people in this school see me for, has gotten back to him.
Tears sting behind my eyes. It’s always like this. I’m not surprised anymore when my few romantic endeavors get thrown back into my face. Like it’s a death sentence to be attracted to people who have the same kind of life as me.
The spot on my tongue where I bite down harder draws blood. My peers don’t take me seriously because I’m a woman who has dated a few guys.
I ignore the pain in my mouth and ask, “What did you say?”
This is my version of morbid curiosity.
He’s still not looking elsewhere, but in the seconds that seem to stretch for hours, I watch Locke. Notice his jaw tightening and how he leans his head back against the couch, tilting just slightly towards Ghost sprawled across the back cushion.
“Not enough. But I told him you were my friend.”
My eyebrows raise. In the larger picture, no, that’s not enough. I don’t know if there will ever be enough done or said to erase the things I’ve heard about me.
But considering how alienated I’ve felt up to this point, it’s a lot. It’s loads of kindness and faith and relief wrapped into a shy bow.
“Really?” When my voice rises in pitch, I feel myself heat up with embarrassment. “What did he say?”
“Nothing. It shut up him.”
Only then does Locke spare me a glance, and when he does, I smile.
“Thank you. That was nice of you.”
“No, it wasn’t. I should’ve told him how horrible of a person he was and not to speak that way about any woman—let alone you—ever again.”
