My neck. Please. Again. Please.
The light scoring of his nails down my arms. The feeling of another body wrapped around mine as we nap in the middle of the day.
Perfect. Parfait.
Ideal. Idéal.
Except when his phone pings at the most inappropriate times. Like when we’re watching the super sexy bits in another movie we’re assigned, the bits that make him pull me closer, the bits that make me want to turn off the computer and take a break. Now all I want to do is watch French movies with Zeke and make out.
Except his phone keeps pinging.
And when he sees the number, he actually growls at the phone.
“If you swear, I’ll make you wear an embarrassing T-shirt.” I laugh.
But he doesn’t join in. He leans forward to hit the pause button on my laptop, then scoots me off his lap and onto the bed. And answers the phone.
“One second,” he says, and his voice is rough. This isn’t the Zeke whose fingers were making tiny circles around my belly button moments ago. This isn’t the Zeke who kept whispering suggestive comments in my ear.
This is Outside Zeke.
“Be right back,” he says, as he makes his way out my door. “No, I wasn’t talking to you. I was talking to someone in the room.”
And then the door shuts behind him.
The door. La porte.
Closes. Ferme.
Behind him. Derrière lui.
Someone in the room.
By the time Zeke gets back, I have the lights back on, the computer closed, and I’m sitting at my desk. I have an article from La Presse open in front of me but I don’t recognize the words. Mostly because they’re swimming in front of me.
I wish Alice were here. I wish there were some way that I could not be here while he’s here. I wish that I don’t notice that he’s packing up his bag, getting ready to leave.
Someone in the room.
Quel-qu’un? I should put it on the list but I’m not sure if it’s right, and god do I hate French right now. I hate that the only words I remember are ta bouche and tes yeux and s’il te plaît and bisou. And the sound of Zeke’s fingers as they sweep through my hair, and the way I get goose bumps on my arms when his teeth graze my jaw. And the fact that goose bumps in French are chair de poule, the flesh of the chicken, instead of des bosses d’oie, which is what they should be.
“Abby?”
But more than anything I hate that there’s a zero percent chance that Zeke will leave here without being able to tell that I’m crying.
Je pleure.
“Abby, are you listening to me?”
I nod, still facing the window, away from Zeke. In the reflection I can see that his head is down, that he’s shaking it back and forth. I should ask if everything is okay, si tout va bien, but words will make it obvious that I’m crying.
Someone in the room.
“Sorry about that,” he starts, and his hands pull his hair back.
I need to pull myself together because I’m clearly overreacting. I know I’m not just someone in the room to Zeke. Wiping my eyes with the back of my hand, I try to get my emotions under control.
“I’m sorry I answered the phone—”
“Is everything okay?” I work very hard to keep my voice even and happy, and by some miracle, it works.
“It’s fine,” Zeke says, and I know he’s lying. Because there was nothing fine about the tone of his voice when he took the call, with the fact that he walked outside to talk, with the way he looks at me right now. Nothing at all.
And as much as I’ve schooled my features, as much as I’ve calmed myself down in the ten minutes he’s been gone, my anger reignites, takes root. I want to yell. I want to scream, Am I really just someone in the room? I want to tell him how sick and tired I am of all these damn trips to Boston, of all the things he’s not telling me, of the fact that I clearly like him way too much for a summer fling, for a relationship that will end with the end of this summer program.
But that means opening up a can of worms that terrifies me. And plus, even through the reflection in the glass, I can tell that he’s worn out, that he’s barely holding it together. “Come here,” I say, turning to face him. I get out of my chair and