Look Both Ways(53)

I search his face for signs that he’s just being polite, but he kind of looks like he wants me to stay. “Really?” I ask.

“Really. It’s no big deal.”

“Thank you,” I say. “And, um, do you think maybe I could sleep here on Saturday, too? Zoe and Carlos won’t be around tomorrow, so I can have the room then.”

“Of course you can. It’ll be cool to hang out. Let me fold this stuff, and then maybe we can watch a movie or something.”

“Sounds perfect,” I say. I’m too distracted to talk, and I don’t want Russell to notice how preoccupied I am.

He takes his time folding his laundry into superprecise squares, and I try not to look; we’re not close enough to know what patterns are printed on each other’s underwear. I’ve learned enough uncomfortably intimate things already tonight. When Russell’s done, he joins me on the bed, facing his giant desktop computer. We pick a silly buddy cop movie—I can’t deal with watching people have actual feelings right now—and switch off the light. A few minutes into the movie, Russell wraps a friendly arm around my shoulders, like he knows I need to be comforted, and I snuggle against his side. It makes me feel tiny and warm and protected. I’m not able to forget about Zoe and Carlos, exactly, but knowing someone’s here for me numbs the pain a little.

When the movie ends, Russell doesn’t move, and his breathing is so deep and steady that I wonder for a minute whether he’s fallen asleep. I’m about to slip out from under his arm and go sleep on the lounge couch after all, when he clears his throat. “Did you know there are more heavy metal bands per capita in Scandinavia than anywhere else in the world?”



I snort. “That is…not as surprising as it probably should be.”

“Damn. I was trying to blow your mind.” He thinks for a minute. “Did you know female kangaroos have three vaginas?”

“What? No. That does blow my mind.” Russell laughs, and he’s so close that the sound rumbles through me like when you stand too close to the speakers at a concert.

“Hey,” he says. “You seemed upset earlier. Was it the sexiling, or is something else bothering you?”

It’s nice that he noticed, though it’s also annoying that Russell is so much more in touch with my emotions than Zoe, who should be paying the closest attention. “Thanks, but I don’t want to talk about it, if you don’t mind,” I say. “I feel better now that I’m here. You and the movie and the kangaroo vaginas totally helped.”

“Kangaroo vaginas—the cure for what ails you.”

I laugh and sit up. “We should get some sleep. Are you sure you’ll be okay on the floor?”

“Yup,” he says. “I don’t really fit in that bed anyway.”

“I feel bad. I can still go to the lounge if—”

“Brooklyn,” he says. “Shut up and let me be nice to you.”

I shut up.

He goes to brush his teeth, and I change into my pajamas and climb into his bed, which has dark blue sheets and a striped comforter that screams “boy.” It’s a little pilly and not nearly as soft as my green polka-dotted bedding, but at least it smells clean. Russell comes back from the bathroom wearing square glasses that look really cute on him, and he spreads out his sleeping bag right next to the bed like he’s guarding me from something. I offer him the only pillow, but he lets me keep it and balls up a couple of sweatshirts under his head instead. When he turns out the light, I expect things to get awkward, but they don’t. Lying there in the dark with him feels surprisingly comfortable.



“Russell?” I say.

“Mm-hmm?”

“Road trips—love or hate?”

“Love,” he says. “Before I got this gig, my sister and I were talking about driving across the country this summer. We still might do it next year. Why do you ask?”

“No reason. It’s a game someone taught me.”

“Oh, okay.” Russell’s quiet for a second, and I think that’s the end of it, but then he says, “Emo songs about how love is a lie and people always disappoint you—love or hate?”

I laugh; that’s a really good one, much more creative than anything Zoe or I ever came up with. “Most of the time, hate. But in that first week or so after a relationship ends, love. When you actually feel like love is a lie, there’s nothing like a good angsty song to validate you.”

“You don’t really think love is a lie, though, do you?”

Right now I think love is a big confusing snarl, but I say, “No, of course not.”

“Good. That would be a depressing way to live.”

“Looking at other people’s vacation photos, love or hate?”



“Fewer than fifty, love,” Russell says. “More than fifty, get over yourself, nobody cares. Marathoning a TV show you know is objectively bad but that you can’t seem to stop watching, even though you have no idea why—love or hate?”

“Hate. I have to take my guilty pleasures in small doses or it makes me feel gross. Like, I actually feel physically sticky.” Russell makes a snorting sound, and I say, “What?”

“I don’t believe in guilty pleasure,” he says.