Ben’s motorcycle from just a couple streets away.
He pulls up beside me and parks his bike in front of the diner. “Thanks for coming out,” he says, opening the door wide.
We order at the counter—hot chocolates and blueberry muffins—and then take our tray to a table in the corner.
“So, what’s going on?” I ask, noticing how sullen Ben looks.
He leans in close, as if what he has to say is really important, but instead he just stares at me. His dark gray eyes are runny from the cold. “I just kind of wanted to see you,” he says.
“Oh.” I feel my face crinkle in confusion. “I thought it was something urgent.”
“Who’s Adam?”
“Is that why you wanted to see me?”
“I’m just curious.” He shrugs. “You said his name when I called you.”
I’m tempted to tell him that he no longer has any right to ask about other guys, but instead I just say: “He’s someone I work with.”
“And you’re seeing him?”
“I thought you said you wanted space.”
“I do.”
“Then what are we doing here?”
A second later, a waitress comes to check on us. “Is everything okay?” she asks, noticing that neither of us has touched our food.
I nod slightly, and she turns away.
Meanwhile, Ben continues to study my face. “We’re here because you said something today that bothered me.”
“What?” I ask, wishing he’d just spit it out.
He bites his lip and gazes at my mouth, afraid to tell me, maybe. But then he finally says it: “When you said that if I’d help you, you’d leave me alone.”
“You don’t want that?”
“You don’t have to leave me alone completely. It’s not like we can’t talk sometimes.”
“Isn’t it? I mean, we’ve already been through this. I can’t be with you if I’m not allowed to touch you. If I’m not allowed to feel what I’m feeling.”
“And what are you feeling?”
I shake my head, refusing to open up again. “I can’t do this. I can’t be all vulnerable, only to have you change your mind five minutes later. You said you wanted space and so I’m giving it to you. I’m trying to move on.”
“It seems like you’ve already moved on.”
I shake my head, fighting the urge to tell him that there’s nothing going on between Adam and me. Because he honestly has no right to know. “Maybe we should leave,” I say, sliding my chair back.
“Not yet.”
“Do you have something else to tell me?”
He opens his mouth as if to speak, but instead he touches me. He slides his hand across the table and rests it on my forearm.
“What are you doing?” I whisper, but I’m not sure the words are audible.
Ben clenches harder until my arm stings, and I almost have to tug away.
“What are you feeling for?” I ask, fully aware that he’s trying to read me. At first I assume it’s because of everything that’s been going on—the photos, the notes, the phone call.
But then it hits me: he already said I was safe. He said he didn’t sense anything dangerous when he touched me before. And so far, all it seems he’s wanted to know about is Adam.
I pull away and stand from the table. “I have to go.”
“Please, Camelia, no.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. Tears well up in my eyes. “I can’t do this. You can’t have it both ways.” I turn away, leaving him alone.
26
In my room I tear off my coat, kick my boots to the corner, and slip into bed, somehow still able to feel Ben’s touch on my forearm. I close my eyes and tell myself that I did the right thing.
Even though it hurts like hell.
Even though there’s a gnawing ache inside me that gets bigger with each breath.
I roll over and bury my face in the covers, trying to think of something, anything else: work, school, Kimmie, my mom. . . . But all my thoughts travel back to the same place. Back to him, to how sullen he looked tonight, to the vulnerable gape of his eyes, and everything he said. It was almost as if something between us had died.
Or maybe together we’re
He pulls up beside me and parks his bike in front of the diner. “Thanks for coming out,” he says, opening the door wide.
We order at the counter—hot chocolates and blueberry muffins—and then take our tray to a table in the corner.
“So, what’s going on?” I ask, noticing how sullen Ben looks.
He leans in close, as if what he has to say is really important, but instead he just stares at me. His dark gray eyes are runny from the cold. “I just kind of wanted to see you,” he says.
“Oh.” I feel my face crinkle in confusion. “I thought it was something urgent.”
“Who’s Adam?”
“Is that why you wanted to see me?”
“I’m just curious.” He shrugs. “You said his name when I called you.”
I’m tempted to tell him that he no longer has any right to ask about other guys, but instead I just say: “He’s someone I work with.”
“And you’re seeing him?”
“I thought you said you wanted space.”
“I do.”
“Then what are we doing here?”
A second later, a waitress comes to check on us. “Is everything okay?” she asks, noticing that neither of us has touched our food.
I nod slightly, and she turns away.
Meanwhile, Ben continues to study my face. “We’re here because you said something today that bothered me.”
“What?” I ask, wishing he’d just spit it out.
He bites his lip and gazes at my mouth, afraid to tell me, maybe. But then he finally says it: “When you said that if I’d help you, you’d leave me alone.”
“You don’t want that?”
“You don’t have to leave me alone completely. It’s not like we can’t talk sometimes.”
“Isn’t it? I mean, we’ve already been through this. I can’t be with you if I’m not allowed to touch you. If I’m not allowed to feel what I’m feeling.”
“And what are you feeling?”
I shake my head, refusing to open up again. “I can’t do this. I can’t be all vulnerable, only to have you change your mind five minutes later. You said you wanted space and so I’m giving it to you. I’m trying to move on.”
“It seems like you’ve already moved on.”
I shake my head, fighting the urge to tell him that there’s nothing going on between Adam and me. Because he honestly has no right to know. “Maybe we should leave,” I say, sliding my chair back.
“Not yet.”
“Do you have something else to tell me?”
He opens his mouth as if to speak, but instead he touches me. He slides his hand across the table and rests it on my forearm.
“What are you doing?” I whisper, but I’m not sure the words are audible.
Ben clenches harder until my arm stings, and I almost have to tug away.
“What are you feeling for?” I ask, fully aware that he’s trying to read me. At first I assume it’s because of everything that’s been going on—the photos, the notes, the phone call.
But then it hits me: he already said I was safe. He said he didn’t sense anything dangerous when he touched me before. And so far, all it seems he’s wanted to know about is Adam.
I pull away and stand from the table. “I have to go.”
“Please, Camelia, no.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. Tears well up in my eyes. “I can’t do this. You can’t have it both ways.” I turn away, leaving him alone.
26
In my room I tear off my coat, kick my boots to the corner, and slip into bed, somehow still able to feel Ben’s touch on my forearm. I close my eyes and tell myself that I did the right thing.
Even though it hurts like hell.
Even though there’s a gnawing ache inside me that gets bigger with each breath.
I roll over and bury my face in the covers, trying to think of something, anything else: work, school, Kimmie, my mom. . . . But all my thoughts travel back to the same place. Back to him, to how sullen he looked tonight, to the vulnerable gape of his eyes, and everything he said. It was almost as if something between us had died.
Or maybe together we’re
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