I'm Thinking of Ending Things(37)

I don’t want to get into an argument. Not now, not here. Not when I’ve made my decision about Jake, about us. I turn away again and look out my window. How did I end up in this situation? I laugh out loud.

“What?” he asks.

“Nothing, it’s just . . .”

“Just what?”

“Really, it’s nothing. I was thinking about something funny that happened at work.”

He looks at me like he can’t believe I could tell such an obvious lie.

“What did you think of the farm? Of my parents?”

Now he asks me? After all this time? I hesitate. “It was fun to see where you grew up. I told you that.”

“Did you think it would be like that? Was it how you pictured it?”

“I don’t know what I thought. I haven’t spent much time in the country, or on a farm. I didn’t really have an idea of what it would be like. It was about what I thought, I guess, sure.”

“Did it surprise you?”

I shift in my seat, to the left, toward Jake. Strange questions. Out of character for Jake. Of course it was not really what I thought it would be like. “Why would you think it surprised me? Why?”

“I’m just curious what you thought. Did it seem like a nice place to grow up?”

“Your parents were sweet. It was kind of them to invite me. I liked your dad’s glasses string. He has an old-timey appeal to him. He invited us to stay over.”

“He did?”

“Yeah. He said he’d make coffee.”

“Did they seem happy to you?”

“Your folks?”

“Yeah, I’m curious. I’ve been wondering about them lately. How happy they are. They’ve been under stress. I worry about them.”

“They seemed fine. Your mom is having a tough time, but your dad is supportive.”

Were they happy? I’m not sure. His parents didn’t seem explicitly unhappy. There was that argument, the stuff I overheard. The vague bickering after dinner. It’s hard to say what happy is. Something did seem a little off. Maybe it had to do with Jake’s brother. I don’t know. As he said, they seemed to be under stress.

A hand touches my leg. “I’m glad you came.”

“Me, too,” I say.

“Really, it means a lot. I’ve been wanting you to see that place for a long time.”

He leans in and kisses my neck. I’m not expecting it. I feel my body tense and brace against the seat. He moves closer, pulling me in. His hand is up my shirt, over my bra, back down. It moves over my bare stomach, my side, my lower back.

His left hand strokes my face, my cheek. His hand is around to the back of my head, brushing hair behind my ear. My head falls against the headrest. He kisses my earlobe, behind my ear.

“Jake,” I say.

Jake pushes my coat aside and pulls my shirt up. We pause as the shirt blocks us. He rips it the rest of the way over my head and lets the shirt drop at my feet. He feels good. His hands. His face. I shouldn’t do this. Not when I’m thinking of ending things. But he feels good right now. He does.

He’s kissing near my bare shoulder, where my neck and shoulder meet.

Maybe it’s too soon to know. It doesn’t matter. God. I just want him to keep doing what he’s doing. I want to kiss him.

“Steph,” he whispers.

I stop. “What?”

He moans, kissing my neck.

“What did you say?”

“Nothing.”

Did he call me Steph? Did he? I lean my head back as he starts kissing my chest. I close my eyes.

“What the f*ck!” he says.

Jake tenses, recoils, and then leans over me again, shielding me. A shudder runs through me. He rubs his hand on the window, clearing some condensation away.

“What the f*ck!” he says again, louder.

“What?” I’m reaching now for my shirt on the floor. “What’s wrong?”

“Shit,” he says, still leaning across me. “Like I said, there’s someone in the school. Sit up. Quick. Put your shirt on. Hurry up.”

“What?”

“I don’t want to startle you. Just sit up. He can see us. He was looking.”

“Jake? What are you talking about?”

“He was staring at us.”

I feel unease, a pit in my stomach.

“I can’t find my shirt. It’s down here on the floor somewhere.”

“When I looked up, over your shoulder. I saw someone. It was a man.”

“A man?”

“A man. He was standing at that window, there, and he wasn’t moving or anything, just staring, right at the car, at us. He could see us.”

“This is creeping me out, Jake. I don’t like this. Why was he looking at us?”

“I don’t know, but it’s not right.”

Jake is rattled, upset.

“Are you sure there was someone there? I can’t see anyone.”

I turn in my seat toward the school. I’m trying to stay calm. I don’t want to upset him further. I see the windows he’s talking about. But there’s no one. Nothing. If someone had been there, they could have seen us, easily.

“I’m positive. I saw him. He was . . . staring at us. He was enjoying watching us. It’s sick.”