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CARMEN
Paul has been so strange lately.
It’s like someone flipped a switch overnight. Today he handed back my English paper—riddled with spelling mistakes I already knew about—and gave me an A.
I wanted to ask what on earth was going on, but something about the way he avoided my gaze made me think better of it.
Diane has been busy all week too, which means I’ve had far too much time alone with my thoughts. By the time I pull into my driveway after class, a heaviness sits in my chest. Sadness, I suppose. Or disappointment. Or the horrible little ache of missing someone I’m actively trying not to miss.
Then I spot Levi leaning against my front door like he’s been waiting there a while, broad shoulders hunched slightly, one boot braced against the step. It’s been four days since I told him I needed space because of the period I don’t actually have, and he’s still showing up.
It is sweet, though. Which is exactly the problem. I can’t let myself get attached to him. I’m going to break my own heart if I’m not careful.
“Hey,” he says as I reach the porch.
“I still need space,” I say.
His jaw tightens, but he nods once like he expected that. He’s holding a small gift bag in one hand and a slightly squashed box of chocolates in the other. After a beat, he thrusts both toward me like they might explode.
“Here.”
“What’s this?”
“For you.”
I take the bag and open it. Inside lies a folding knife with a matte black blade and a bright pink handle.
For a moment, I can only stare. I look up at him, stunned.
Levi grins. “It’s got a good grip, easy to open one-handed. The blade’s sharp, but it folds safely so you won’t accidentally stab yourself digging through your handbag.”
“And I got the pink one,” he adds, completely serious, “because it’s girly.”
A startled sound escapes me—half laugh, half disbelief.
“You bought me a knife.”
“And chocolate.” He nods at the box like that somehow balances things out. “You can protect yourself now. If some asshole tries to ask you on a date…straight in the throat.”
I look down at the ridiculous pink-handled blade, then back at this impossible man who genuinely believes he’s just given me the perfect romantic gift.
He watches me carefully, suddenly uncertain. “You hate it.”
“No,” I say quickly.
He glances down at the bag. “Fuck.”
“No, I like it,” I tell him, fighting a real smile now. “It’s just…very you.”
Before I can answer, his expression shifts. The awkwardness drains away, replaced by something more serious.
“I looked it up. Periods don’t make you need space like that.” His voice is rough. “I know you’re pissed because I said the wrong thing the other night. But I…I’ll do whatever you want.”
“What are you talking about?” I ask, even though I’m pretty sure I already know.
“That monogamous shit,” he says bluntly. “I’ll do it.”
