the bathroom.
One hand still on the wall, one hip pressing against it, I swivel away from Zeke, who hasn’t moved, and Chloe, who is heading inside her room, away from my room because I can’t take even a small step toward him. I’ll head to the stairs or the common room. . . . No, not the common room. The bathroom. He won’t follow me into the bathroom.
Except what if he doesn’t try? That might be even worse.
I never realized how well-placed all the organs were inside my body until suddenly they’re jumbled up. How important my bones are in keeping it all inside, my muscles in keeping me upright.
Zeke was out tonight with a bunch of people. He told me he was busy until Sunday.
Which means I’m an idiot. It means my romantic cabaret experience is a big effing joke. Because it’s all fun to do French stuff together, but when he really wants to have a good time, he goes out with other people. Even if it means lying to me. It apparently means nothing that he holds my hand, or that our French conversations flow with a comfort I rarely, if ever, feel with anyone.
Zeke’s an athlete. Why should I be surprised that he’s flirting with me and hanging out with another girl at three in the morning? Plus, it’s not like he promised me anything, like we’re anything to each other beyond study partners.
I’m the idiot.
I’m the idiot.
A door closes and I hope it means Zeke is gone too.
“Abby!”
He’s not.
I’m not moving fast but I don’t turn around. His voice is cut up in pieces. He only said my name but I can tell.
“Sorry,” I mumble as I dart farther away. Sorry? Sorry for reminding you that something has been brewing between us over the last few weeks? Sorry that I thought that the fact that our hands rest in each other’s so effortlessly, that your thumb likes to graze the inside of my palm, that when you do that I get shivers all over my freaking body like I just discovered it was possible to feel this way, sorry that I thought that meant something?
Sorry.
“Abby, wait. Hear me out.”
“Je ne parle pas anglais. Désolée!”
“Abby!” He hisses it as loud as he dares without waking up Priya and all the girls in the hall.
My cheeks are so hot; I can’t imagine what they look like. I stop. I press my face into the cool painted bricks. I stop because I’m so close to the bathroom, and I don’t want to go inside. My fingers graze the molding around the door; another inch and a half and I’d be touching the doorknob. But then what? What if I went inside? Would he go back to his room? Will tomorrow be eighty-five different versions of awful?
And then he’s behind me.
“It’s not what you think. My parents’ flight was delayed so they told me to drive over in the morning.”
I nod. Makes sense. I’m the one who’s dumb. It’s not like we’re joined at the hip. He doesn’t need to call me when he has a free minute.
This is Zeke-in-English. I’m a casual acquaintance of his.
“Ça va,” I whisper.
“It’s not okay, Abby, you’re upset.”
“Zeke, you can do whatever you want. You don’t owe—”
“You told me it was a mistake, Abby. You told me that kissing me was a mistake. Une erreur. You said it was a mistake.”
No. No. No. No. No. “Je suis vraiment désolée.” I’m so, so sorry. So sorry. God, Zeke, I’m sorry.
His breath is warm against my bare back and suddenly I’m embarrassed to be in this tank top and shorts, with no bra on, no nothing.
There’s so much I want to say. So much that’s lost in my head. Je t’aime, Zeke. Je t’aime tellement que ça me fait mal au coeur. My heart hurts from liking you this much.
“I need to leave for Boston first thing in the morning to see my parents, but I’ll be back Sunday evening, okay? I’ll be back, and we’ll talk?”
I nod and it’s only moments after he leaves that I realize that those last sentences were all in French. Je dois partir, I need to leave. Matin, morning. Mes parents, my parents. Mais je reviendrai, but I’ll be back.
It’s like the French burrowed its way deep inside me, until all those words melted together into one conversation that I didn’t want to have.
Saturday starts off with a dull whimper. The emptiness of the weekend, especially without Alice, feels