Deeper (Caroline & West #1)(73)

“What are you doing later?”

“I’m on until late.”

He doesn’t say when he’ll be home. He doesn’t invite me over.

That empty thing he does with his face—it’s a trick. An act he’s figured out how to do. It drives me crazy, because I don’t know how to hide myself like that, and I haven’t done anything to deserve his retreat.

It makes me think of that day in the library when I tried to slap him.

The way he was that day—that’s West. That was me, too. Both of us there that afternoon, angry, intense, impulsive, real. Whereas this—this is just West being an *.

“What’s your class schedule this semester?”

Another shrug. “I’d have to check. I haven’t memorized it.”

There’s a slight sneer in that sentence. I haven’t memorized it, like I’m sure you have.

West has never sneered at me before.

He’s teased me, challenged me, seduced me—but he’s never mocked me.

Something is really deeply wrong here.

I screw up my courage and catch at the sleeve of his coat, pulling him to a halt right in the middle of the sidewalk.

“Did something happen to you? Last night, or on your way back here?”

It’s a long shot, but he could have an excuse. An explanation. He could.

“I told you, nothing’s the matter.”

“Then why are you acting like this?”

“Like what?”

I push at his biceps with my fingertips, looking up at his empty face. “Like this.”

He kind of rolls his eyes at me. Not all the way, but he glances up at the sky, like I’m hassling him. Some random, troublesome girl. “I think you have the wrong idea about us.”

“What does that mean?”

“Showing up at my apartment. We’re not gonna be like that.”

We’re not gonna be like that.

That’s what he’s getting at with this routine of his. That’s his purpose. “You’re pushing me away.”

He still won’t look at me, and I think at first it’s more of the same thing—a way for him to pretend I’m getting predictably whiny now, female histrionics in full effect—except his eyes are glistening. His Adam’s apple works, bobbing as he swallows.

His voice is full of gravel when he tells me, “It’s just, I’m gonna be busy.” He clears his throat and continues, “I’ve got eighteen credits this semester, plus an extra bakery shift, and I don’t think—”

“Who do you think you are?”

“What?”

“Are you the same person who I talked to on the phone two nights ago? And the night before that, and the night before that, and twice a lot of days, when the house was empty with Frankie at school? Was that you, or was that some other guy who just sounded like you?”

“You know it was me.”

“So what are you saying?”

He crosses his arms. Completely unable to look at me. “I’m saying I want to back off this thing.”

“This thing.”

“Us.”

“You’re breaking up with me?”

“We were never going out.”

The words drop onto the ground between us, and I look at the place where they land, right in front of his feet. The frozen gray slush. West is standing braced—his legs wide, his arms crossed, the restaurant door ten feet behind him, glowing like a beacon.

He planned this. He was ready for it.

And he’s still doing a really terrible job of pretending not to give a shit.

We were never going out.

We’re not friends.

He told me less than forty-eight hours ago that he wanted to tongue my clit until my thighs were trembling. I don’t know what’s changed. Something. Nothing. He hasn’t bothered to tell me.

Because, after all, when does he ever bother to tell me anything?

I should be angry, but I’m so surprised and so f*cking disappointed. I thought I’d be in his bed right now. I thought we’d be smiling, naked, rolling on a condom so I could finally, finally, feel him inside me.

Instead, he’s so far away, I can’t even find him in his own face.

“Right,” I say slowly, looking at those five pathetic words on the ground. “We were never going out.”

He glances at the restaurant behind him. “I gotta go.”

I should let him.

I should tell him to go f*ck himself.

But I need something, some rope to catch hold of, some idea what happens next. So I ask, “Will I see you? At the bakery, or will you come to the rugby party Saturday, or … ?”

“I’m sure I’ll see you around.”

“Yeah. Great. That’s just f*cking great, West.”

His eyebrows have drawn in, like maybe I’m getting to him a little bit.

It could be because tears are making hot tracks down my face, puddling beneath my jaw, cooling on my neck.

It could be that.

“You have a great shift,” I tell him. “I’ll see you around. It’s a good thing we’re not friends, or else maybe I’d miss you. Or something more than friends—it’s a good thing we weren’t going out, or I’d be gutted right now. But, you know, we’re not. Going out. Obviously. It’s so obvious, I’m not sure why I didn’t get the memo on that. Maybe it was all the phone sex, addling my stupid female brain. Or, hell, maybe it was all those hours we spent together at the bakery, hanging out, or that time when I slept in your bed and cried on your lap on the bathroom floor. I just got confused about what we are. I didn’t get the memo.”