up. Our easy banter in English and our intense discussions in French. I’ve destroyed them all.
“Please leave,” I whisper.
“I’m not leaving. But here’s the thing. I did wake up at the crack of dawn because that was the earliest time my parents would let me go. And seeing as I waited up until Colin told me you were safely back in bed—”
“Oh fuck.”
“Well, you’re not pretending you don’t swear. But I’m a little tired. So how about this? I know tonight was your night for planning something for our French conversation, but we still have a couple of movies we need to watch, and I’m not sure I’m up for any big conversations. Why don’t we both get a little sleep, and we’ll just watch movies tonight? Would that be okay?”
“If I haven’t left the state by then.”
“You won’t.” He laughs and this time it’s so real I want to cry. “Are you going to be okay for a bit? Do you want me to stay and sleep in Alice’s bed?”
“She’d kill you.”
“I’ll take my chances.”
Slipping the pillow behind me, I glance up at his smirk.
I press my lips together to make sure my thoughts don’t come out. Because I love his smirk. “I’ll be okay.”
“Good.” He kisses me on the forehead, the quickest slip of a kiss ever, and then before I can pull him into bed with me, he’s gone.
EIGHTEEN
SITTING ON ZEKE’S BED, I try to focus on the movie. We opted for an action-adventure film, something about a jewelry heist and small cars racing backward down one-way streets. Zeke is making a list of vocabulary words but I’m so tired, I can barely stay upright.
“Do you want to stop the movie?”
“I’m good,” I say.
“You aren’t watching the movie.”
“I’m listening.” I’ve propped my legs up, and I’m resting my head on my knees, eyes closed. It’s not just because I’m exhausted. I’m also ripped with the knowledge that I’ve messed everything up. By the time he came to get me in my room, his hair still wet from the shower, his eyes slightly less red with exhaustion, the stillness had settled between us.
“Tu veux à manger?” Do you want to eat?
“Non, merci.” No, thank you.
“Tu te sens mieux?” Do you feel better?
“Oui, merci.” Yes, thank you. (A lie. A lie so huge that it balloons to fill the room with its decay.)
“Quel film est-ce que to veux voir?” What movie do you want to see?
“Ça ne fait rien.” It doesn’t matter.
And blah. And blah. And blah. And the stillness and the messiness and the sadness and the nothingness builds a wall around our two bodies until it’s like we’re in two different rooms, two different colleges, two different lifetimes. It’s worse than being in a room with someone I’ve never met. It’s being in a room with someone I’ve lost.
“Viens,” he says. He shifts the computer that provides the invisible line between us and extends out his arm. “Come here.” His fingers graze against the thick sweatshirt that hides me and pulls me toward him. “Lie down.”
It’s a bad idea. It’s a terrible idea. His arms are open and he’s placed the pillow from his bed on his lap. He wants me to put my head in his lap. He wants to . . .
This might break me, I think as I lean toward him. Ça va peut-être me casser.
Peut-être is the wrong word. It should be certainement. Certainly. This will certainly break me.
As I relax into the pillow, my shoulder shifting around the hard muscles on his thigh, I wish someone would walk in and stop me. But then he leans forward and turns the movie back on, and one hand is on my shoulder and his other hand is in my hair and this . . . this.
“Abby?”
I don’t want to wake up. In my dream there’s a car chase and Zeke is driving and his fingers are playing with my hair. I know that’s a bad idea; when you’re driving at top speed in a tiny car on a curvy road, you shouldn’t be playing with someone’s hair. But I’ve got the diamond so we’re okay.
“Abby? You awake?”
“I’ve got the diamond.”
“You’ve got the what?” His voice is quiet but there’s the tiniest tinge of laughter in it, and I don’t think he properly understands the implication of the fact that I’ve been holding this enormous round diamond as tightly as I can for so long. I clutch it harder. I won’t let go.
“Abby, you’re hurting