Who was I kidding? The panties probably came off even if he didn’t talk to a girl. He could smile or just acknowledge her presence and she’d swoon into his arms. I needed to avoid him, if only to preserve my dignity. I was too afraid that I’d throw myself at him and beg him to take me in all the ways that a virgin could dream of and then some. I kept moving toward my apartment, trying not to race, trying not to look tragic.
Once we reached the front of my apartment, I was stymied.
I had just let Noah know where I lived. Plus, I doubted I could get behind my security door before he put his big foot in and prevented it from closing.
As if he could read my mind, he said, “I already knew where you lived. You aren’t showing me anything I didn’t already know.” I still didn’t turn around. I could feel the tears I had tried to keep away begin to well up. Any minute now, I was going to start crying, and he so did not deserve to see me cry. That asshole.
This time, I felt his hand on my arm. I wanted to shake it off, but I didn’t move. I didn’t want him to know he affected me at all. Or at least more than he already knew. His hand slid down from my elbow to my palm, and I felt a piece of paper being pressed into my hand.
His body crowded mine for a second and I thought I felt his lips touch my hair. “Read this. It’s how we’ve communicated best in the past.” With that, he let go slowly. I wanted to just let his note drop to the ground, but as his hand released mine, I felt my fingers curl up involuntarily to crush the note in my palm. He squeezed my now-closed fist and walked away. I heard his footsteps fade, felt the warmth of his body dissipate.
I didn’t look back but instead went into the house and walked up the stairs. My feet felt like they had cinder blocks attached. By the time I reached the apartment door, I was shaking. It was hot outside and even hotter on the third floor, but my internal body temperature was telling me I was freezing. Maybe I was going into shock.
I dumped my stuff right inside the front door. I vaguely heard the chirps of my phone, informing me I had unread texts. Ignoring them, I walked into my bathroom, turned on the shower and stripped. Inside the glass cube, with water as hot as I could get it shooting out of the showerhead, I let go.
I wasn’t even sure what I was crying about. My own stupidity. My years of not dating, because I was so sure that Noah was my happily ever after. My lackluster freshman year. My inability to gather up the courage to submit my portfolio to the Fine Arts school. My certainty that no one would ever love me. All of it, I guess.
I cried for what seemed like hours, not noticing anything until the water shut off. I looked up and Lana was standing there, her eyes wet and concerned. She held a towel in her hands. I stumbled forward and she hugged me, wrapping me inside the terry cloth. I allowed her to lead me to the bedroom where the shades had been pulled and a towel placed on my pillow.
She held up the covers and I crawled inside like a five-year-old. Once she pulled the covers up over my body, Lana left the room quietly, closing the door behind her. The crying jag, the darkness of the room, and the weight of the covers dragged me into a dreamless sleep.
Hunger woke me up. I glanced at the clock—I had slept for three hours and it was nearly dinnertime. My hair was mostly dry, but I wrapped it up in a towel anyway and shrugged on a robe. I heard the television in the living room. Lana was on the sofa with a textbook in her lap and the remote beside her. Two Diet Cokes were open on the table. I knew she was dying to ask me what was going on, but she managed to stay quiet for the moment, at least.
“Should we have ice cream for dinner?” Lana asked as I walked over and took a long drag from her Diet Coke. I was parched. Dried out. I had no liquid left inside me after all that crying. And I was so shook up by Noah’s appearance two thousand miles from San Diego that I actually sat on the sofa, which I ordinarily avoided since Peter and Lana seemed to spend so much time making out on it.
“No,” I put the now half-empty soda can on the table. “But I’m hungry.”
“I was thinking of ordering in.”
“Good call.” And then knowing Lana needed an explanation, I told her, “He was waiting outside my Poli Sci class.”
“Did you talk?” Lana was matter-of-fact, as if she knew I needed steadiness not sympathy.
I shook my head. “No, but he gave me a note.”
“Like you’re third graders? What did it say?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted. I turned toward the entryway where I had dropped all my stuff, including the note, but Lana had cleaned it up.
“Oh!” She popped up. “I saw it and stuffed it in your bag.” She brought my backpack over, and I rooted through it to pull out the folded piece of lined notebook paper.