Sweet Nothing(57)

He pulls back and catches my eye. Slips my glasses off and brushes my hair away from my face so gently that it makes me want to cry. “What’s going on, Elle? What’s wrong?”

I try to stop the tears, but they stumble down my cheeks. “I just… it’s nothing. It’s been a really stressful week, that’s all.” And I’m not sure I can trust you. And I’m mourning my whole family in a way even you could never understand. And there’s no way out of this hell for me. I’m responsible for everything that’s happened. And I’m going to have to live with it forever. There’s so much I need to tell him. But I can’t. I can’t lose him, too. I screw my eyes shut, forbidding any more tears.

“Okay, okay.” He holds me close, stroking my hair and kissing the top of my head. “I know. This is a really stressful job, and everything’s new, and I’m sure dealing with me and all my stuff hasn’t helped any.”

“Yeah. Your stuff. Let’s blame it on that.” I mumble into his chest. “My breakdown is your fault, definitely.” When I pull away there are tearstains and snot on his shirt. Perfect. “Oh, shit. Sorry.”

“Elle.” He cups my face in his hands and kisses me lightly on the mouth. “First of all, if this is your version of a breakdown, well, you suck at breakdowns.”

I half-laugh, half-sob.

“And second of all, you know that I’ve been through some pretty tough shit in my life. So trust me enough to know that whatever you have going on right now, you can tell me. I can take it. Can you trust that?”

I don’t know. I lean into him again, and he squeezes me tight. I can hear his heartbeat, steady in his chest.

“I—I’m just feeling really…” God, I want to let it all go. Give him everything, all of it, and then at least I’d know. I’d know for sure he couldn’t handle the real me. It would hurt like hell. But I wouldn’t wonder anymore. Sometimes I think that possibility hurts more than truth.

“What?” Gently, he traces my cheekbone with his thumb. It’s a simple gesture, but tender. So caring, I know it’s the only thing that’s keeping me from feeling completely alone. I can’t lose this. Not now.

“… just tired, is all. I guess this whole teaching thing is turning out to be tougher than I thought.” I’m such a coward.

He’s quiet. There’s no way he believes me. But he doesn’t push.

After a few minutes, I realize that my breath and body have synced with Luke’s. Our chests rise and fall together. With each breath, I melt deeper into him until I’m so relaxed, I start to drift off. He brings me back with a shower of light kisses.

“Hey.” He nuzzles my neck. “Sleeping beauty.”

“Sorry,” I yawn.

“No big deal,” he says lightly. Teasingly. “It’s good to know that just being in my presence makes you… you know. Pass out.”

“That’s not it!” I protest. “You just relax me, that’s all.”

“Well, don’t get too relaxed. I came over because I have something I want to show you.”

“What? Where?”

“At school.”

“Now?” I pull away and fumble for the clock on my bedside table. “But it’s almost nine.”

“You know what I like about you? You’re wild.”

My cheeks burn. “Forget I said that. I just don’t know what could be at school right now that’s better than being here.” In bed. With you. I feel a sudden shiver of anticipation. Wonder what it would be like to turn off the lights and the voice in my head.

“Well, if you don’t come with me, you’ll never find out.” Apparently, being in bed next to me does nothing for Luke. He slides off the bed and pulls me to my feet. “Come on. Let’s go. I want you to see this.”



Not five minutes later, Luke has parked Betty (illegally) at the student drop-off, and we’re cutting across the lawn. Hazy streetlights cast a watery gold glow over the rumpled blanket of green. I slip off my flip-flops and follow a few steps behind Luke, the grass thick and coarse against my soles. This is something I didn’t experience much in New York as a kid: the warm, wet earth beneath my feet. The air is heavy and sweet, and smells like summer.

“Where are we going? You can at least tell me that, right?” The fatigue that weighed me down earlier has lifted. I feel lighter. And just the slightest bit curious.

“The studio.” He interlaces his fingers with mine. “And that’s the last question I’m answering.”

I mime zipping my lips and throwing away the key. But there are so many more questions I want to ask. Like why he moves closer when I start to cry, instead of freaking out or pulling away. Or why he goes out of his way to surprise me like this, when no one has ever put that much thought into making me happy. And the real question: what he’s doing here, with me. What he sees that keeps him here.