Page 5

“No,” I say.

“Then how would you know what type I am?”

It’s how calm he is. I’m standing here with my face on fire and my eyes stinging and three years rearranging themselves faster than I can keep up, and this asshole looks like he’s waiting for an elevator.

“I don’t,” I say. “And I never plan to.”

“Great.”

“Great.” I shove past him for the door.

He says, “Keep it that way.”

My hand closes on the handle. I look back, ready for whatever he says next, but he isn’t looking at me anymore. He’s watching the far end of the parking lot like I’ve already gone inside.

Asshole.

“Kylie,” Evan says behind me.

I yank the door open. “Go home, Evan.”

“Can we talk tomorrow?”

Under the entryway light, his face is one I know better than my own. His eyes look wet, or maybe it’s the light. I honestly can’t tell, so I go inside and let the door close on the question.

The anger carries me up the stairs and down the hallway, past a whiteboard where someone has drawn a lopsided heart, all the way to my door. I miss the lock with my key once, then twice, and that’s when I notice my hand is shaking, badly, the key rattling against the metal plate. Before I can try a third time, the chain scrapes on the other side, and the door opens.

Tessa stands there in pajama pants with her toothbrush in her hand. Her eyes go past me to the empty hallway first, left and then right, before they drop to my key.

“Oh,” she says. “It wasn’t stuck.”

“No.”

“Okay.”

Neither of us moves. Then she steps aside, and I walk in.

The room looks exactly like it did when I left. Her desk lamp throwing its circle of warm light, the shirt I tried on and rejected hanging off the back of my chair, her bed made with sharp corners and mine a tangle. It all feels wrong for being here, unchanged, like the room didn’t get the message.

Tessa shuts the door and slides the chain back on. “I was about to brush my teeth.”

I nod.

“Do you need the bathroom first?”

“No.”

“Okay.” She doesn’t move right away. She stands there holding her toothbrush, and I can feel her looking at my face, deciding whether asking would be rude. I pull off one sandal, then the other.

“Your phone is vibrating,” she says.

It is, against my back pocket, over and over. I pull it out and drop it on the bed without looking at the screen, and it keeps going.

Tessa picks up her toiletry bag and opens the door, and I hear myself say her name. She looks back.

My throat is closing, and I have to push the words out around it. “I might––cry.”

She nods once.