Trade Me (Cyclone #1)(42)

She draws in a deep breath. Her eyes meet mine. She looks almost shattered.

And then she turns away. Before I can say anything else, she’s standing up and pulling her shirt back on.

“I’m sorry.” She doesn’t meet my eyes, won’t even look in my direction. She grabs for her coat and checks her watch. “I have to go.”

“Tina.”

“I—I really have to go.” She grabs her keys. Her hands shake as she opens the door. And that’s the point when the blood rushing to my cock stops interfering with the functioning of my mind and I remember how this all started.

I want to do something stupid. Something risky. Something mind-numbingly idiotic.

That’s what she said. And then she kissed me.

5:07 PM

Are we okay?

8:13 PM

Tina?

8:57 PM

Hey.

I’m sure I said something stupid.

I’m sorry.

Just yell at me and I’ll make it right.

ok?

9:22 PM

What are you talking about?

I just remembered I had something to do.

9:25 PM

Bullshit.

10:33 PM

Fine. It’s bullshit.

But I want it to stay *my* bullshit.

Can we do that?

10:34 PM

I don’t know

can we?

10:34 PM

Argh. Be that way.

MAY we.

10:36 PM

I wasn’t correcting your grammar

I just honestly don’t know if that’s possible

11:04 PM

I prefer it when things are simple.

You’re not simple. I freaked out.

11:05 PM

You’re getting to me.

I don’t let people do that.

I’m sorry.

11:12 PM

I’ll take that.

11.

BLAKE

When I walk out of the kitchen at Zhen’s a few minutes after ten on Monday, Tina is sitting at a table waiting for me. Her hands are folded and she’s sitting with perfect posture, like she’s an advertisement for some kind of ergonomic chair.

I stop.

Her eyes dart up to mine and then look away.

I come to stand by her. “Hi, you.”

We haven’t talked—or texted—since our brief exchange on Saturday night. And that’s okay. I can be patient.

I don’t pretend to understand her, but I understand this: Like me, she’s caught. She wants to be responsible. She doesn’t like losing control—even as little as we did together.

And I don’t want her terrified. I want her naked. I want her beneath me. And when she’s there, I want her to be sure.

She looks up at me. Our eyes meet. For a moment, they hold, and the memory of a few days ago, of Tina on top of me, flashes through me. A wave of want washes through me.

I tamp it down.

She stands. “Hi.” She’s trying for nonchalance. “I thought I’d give you a ride home.”

There’s nothing to say to that, but… “Thanks.”

I follow her to the car, slide into the passenger seat. She doesn’t say anything. At every light, she glances at me. When she catches me looking her way, she turns away swiftly. Every time. Finally, I make myself look out the window.

Liquor store. Cat food store. Group of college students, standing on the corner and smoking. The car is quiet; it’s late enough that there’s almost no other noise.

“My father always says,” Tina finally says into that silence, “that if you owe someone an apology, you should do something nice for them. I’m pretty sure I owe you an apology.”

I want to look at her, but somehow, I feel that’s a bad idea—that doing so will prevent her from saying whatever she’s going to say.

“There was a guy first semester of my sophomore year,” she finally says. “We had two classes together. We used to study.”

On the street to my right, I see three students stumble by.

“The day before our first finals, we were joking around. Playing. I liked him a lot. And we were touching, sitting close. He just put his arms around me, and then…things went on from there. We had sex, and I liked it.” Her face is utterly straight. “For one day, I thought I could have everything. That I might be able to do all the things I have to do, and still have someone.”

There’s another long silence and I count businesses again. Chinese food, wine bar, locksmith.

“After our first final together,” she says, “he asked if I wanted to grab a beer. He was already at the bar when I got there, sitting with some friends. And he introduced one of them to me as his girlfriend. That’s how I found out.”

I exhale sharply. “That’s f*cked up.”

“I’m not saying you would do that,” she says. “But you have to understand—it hurt. It hurt a lot. I still had four finals left. I just wanted to curl up and disappear, and I couldn’t. I didn’t have time to care then, and I really don’t have it now. I can’t let myself get hurt.”

My hands twitch on my lap, and for the first time, I look over at her. Even though the street is mostly deserted, she’s going slowly, as if she’s still afraid to do more. “I understand,” I say. “I don’t want to hurt you, either.”