Later that week, Greg is on the eighth floor talking to Sarah, but he keeps glancing over my way.
I feel so antsy, I can’t sit still anymore, so I get up and shut myself in the copy room. And a few minutes later, there’s a soft knock, and Greg slips inside, shutting the door behind him.
There’s a knot of stress in my chest, becauseoh God I’m balancing too many things emotionally right now,keeping up too many ruses at once—for Mark Winterson, for Mom. But it’s not like anyone can see us in here.
“You okay?” he asks, wrung out.
I laugh unhappily. “Are you?”
We stare at each other for a long moment. The light in here is dim. One of the overhead bulbs burned out and no one has gotten around to replacing it yet.
“Don’t think I’ve really slept since we talked the last time.” Greg smiles like it’s funny, and his voice drops lower. “I hate the idea of you over there with him. When I thought this was actually what you wanted, it was one thing, but…”
I throw my arms around him, hugging him so forcefully, he lets out a surprised gasp. But he eases into it—hands on my back, his chin on my shoulder—and I’m flooded with relief, like stepping into a hot shower after a long day.
“Hey,” Greg says. “It’s okay.” He squeezes me tighter.
His fingers knead the muscles between my shoulder blades, working out the tension around my spine. It’s like Greg knows what I need, still, unspoken. Even in high school, my back would always be tense—too many hours bent over my desk studying—and he would sit behind me and work my sore spots with his thumb. Apparently he still remembers.
I take a step back, crossing my arms. Something he said has been bothering me. “Why did it hurt to be around me? At the end of high school.”
Greg stares down at the carpet, and the long pause that follows nearly makes my heart stop. “Right after we kissed…” He heaves a deep sigh. “I overheard you and your mom talking.”
Suddenly it’s hard to swallow. “You overheard us?”
“It must have been, like, a day or two later? I was passing by, and the window was open, and…and instead of walking on like a normal person, I…” His eyes go up to the ceiling, clearly embarrassed. “I crouched in your bushes for a while to listen.”
I have to laugh in disbelief.
“Your mom was saying I have my head in the clouds, I’ll never go anywhere, I’m a bad influence. That I’m not the kind of guy you should be trying to date. And you said,I know, Mom. We’re just in high school, it’s not that serious.”
“I said that to placate her!” It feels like someone has turned up the thermostat in this room about ten degrees. “I needed to calm her down! And wewerein high school. Why didn’t you give me a chance to explain?”
He runs a hand through his hair. “I knew you weren’t goingto go against your mom. And I didn’t want to be the one to make you.”
It hadn’t ever occurred to me that he might think that, and now I’m flipping through years’ worth of memories, reviewing them in this new light.
“I told myself: I like you too much, but it’s not going to work,” Greg goes on. “And my feelings are just going to create problems for us.”
“Why didn’t you ever talk to me about it?”
“I guess, in my mind…I thought you rejected me already.” He lets out a defeated little laugh. “Didn’t want to run a race I couldn’t win.”
I remember now—Greg was like this with a lot of things. Like that time I asked what he wanted to do when he got older, and for once he didn’t answer with a joke. Maybe he was sleep-deprived, or the moon was in a strange phase, but he said that if he could do anything, he’d want to be a professor. It made sense for him, the way he read voraciously, like he was hunting for something.
After that, whenever I tried to bring it up, he’d deny it, find a way to deflect. And then one time, after I’d needled him enough, he spit out the truth like the words burned him:It’s not realistic, okay! I don’t want to play a game I can’t win. I’d rather not even try.
I’m so frustrated—I’m so mad at him, deciding this all on his own!—that tears spill out onto my cheeks.
“Hey.” Greg steps closer and cups my face in both hands. “Ruby. I’m sorry. It was—it was the wrong thing, looking back.”
He wipes away my tears with his fingers, and I try to muster a reassuring smile.
“I thought you were over it already,” he says, voice raspy. “I thought I would get over it someday.”
It’s clear now from the tremor in his voice that he never really did. All the times I judged myself for not being able to move on, all the years I felt pathetic—he was feeling the same, right there with me.
“I just thought…I knew where I stood,” he says, eyes searching mine. “I wanted to be respectful. Not ruin our friendship because I got carried away.”
