Us.
And. My. House.
It’s as I rush to reply my fingers freeze up. I shake them out and re-grip my phone.
Kalli: Sure, sounds cool. When do u wanna come?
Nate: In half hr?
My first reaction is panic. Me, a guy, alone? Seth and Tristan are at kindergarten, and Mum is at work, but I tell Nate yes. I’m not sure when or if I’ll be able to tell him what I need to, but I’ve been practicing, weaning out of my habit.
Scout suggested a desensitisation process. We decided on someone non-romantically involved to test out how I’d go alone. The first step was to ask a professor a question in his office. Closed door, chairs separated by a desk, cut-off space. I went in there after a shot of tequila.
Next was a group assignment. There was one guy and Scout. We were studying, and Scout ducked off a couple times, once to go to the loo, and another later to grab some food supplies. I freaked with my study buddy, but I blamed it on asthma crossed with a freak attack over how I’d get the assignment done, and after losing it, the rest of the time with that guy alone was fine. Scout came back and when we left, I felt accomplished.
I’ve worked my way up, but knowing it’s actually happening—Nate and I in my house, alone—hardly bothers me. Aunty Nicole was right, and I’ve spent the last month and a half without having Nate’s support, and instead with a constant weight everywhere I go.
I hate losing friends, and losing Nate? It’s oh so much more.
Truthfully, it’s much easier handling us in a house alone than it is bearing one more day pretending I’m fine with how things are now.
First thing, I check the time to know when half an hour will be. My room is a pigsty. I change my sheets in case they stink, pick up the clothes I dropped beside my bed from this morning, the one before that, and from however many others. I vacuum up bits of fluff from the carpet. When I’m almost done, there’s a knock at the door.
I run-tiptoe there so I’m not pounding monster steps in the guest’s earshot and chuck open the door.
He is there, looking like he’s been on vacation this time apart. Unlike me, he doesn’t have bags under his eyes. He has a shirt on, rolled up to the elbows with a couple of buttons undone at the top. He’s wearing straight-fitted jeans and Keds-like shoes. Except Nate isn’t into brands, so I bet they’re just from Payless Shoes or something.
I gaze into his pale eyes, see his jaw working as he attempts a tight-lipped smile. It’s the kind of sexy that makes me remember exactly what I’ve lost.
He continues to work his jaw, muscles sinewy down his neck and out of necessity, I spin around and ask him to come in without looking, because I’d rather keep my composure, thanks.
“Oh, err …” he starts.
I stop in the hallway down the house when he doesn’t seem to go on. Seeing me, he averts his eyes. “Did you need to get changed or anything?”
Horrified, I look away from him as soon as he looks up. It’s like a game of eye chase. And it feels all the more ridiculous knowing I haven’t played any type of chase with someone older than four in years. But the worst part is knowing I actually look like shit to him.
I don’t have a big ego, but my hair’s more on the just-rolled-out-of-bed-looking-like-Miranda-Kerr side than a bunch of knots, and I have yesterday’s mascara and eyeliner on, which also looks like sex makeup, which I assumed looked good, as they do in movies.
Guess I’m wrong.
I dip my head and take a couple of steps, stalking off with zero confidence, until Nate says, “Sorry, just um, yeah.”
Whatever.
I have to remember he came here to use me. He needs my signature to release my rights. That’s it. I don’t even care if I’m making a mistake. I’ve done a total flip. I need him gone so I can continue my routine life—uni, study, work, family, parties. Seth and Tristan are my highlights, but Aunty Nicole, too, because she’s closer to agreeing to see Mum in the times we’ve recently spoken. Parties are a way to kill time. I haven’t kissed a guy since Donovan, and out of both parts—the “no kissing” and “Donovan”—the latter has left a sour taste in my mouth. That guy is starting to creep me out.
I turn the corner to head into my room, but notice Nate isn’t following me. Popping my head back around to the hallway, I see he’s got one hand in his pocket, his knee bent, leaning against the wall, whistling to himself.
“Hey—” he looks up “—just come on in.”
Nate doesn’t have to ask, “Are you sure?” It comes out in his careful distance behind me, and in the way he sits on the furthest possible corner of my bed.