Chapters (43)
- Title Page
- Dedication
- Contents
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-One
- Twenty-Two
- Twenty-Three
- Twenty-Four
- Twenty-Five
- Twenty-Six
- Twenty-Seven
- Twenty-Eight
- Twenty-Nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-One
- Thirty-Two
- Thirty-Three
- Epilogue
- Acknowledgments
- About the Author
- Books by Ben Philippe
- Back Ad
- Copyright
- About the Publisher
Fuck, she actually looks embarrassed right now. I can’t let her think that I wouldn’t do . . . that with her. Because, Jesus, I would. At the drop of a hat. On a subway. Like, physically on top of a moving subway. Why is this happening today?
“I just . . . I don’t think it’s the right time.”
“Oh. I just thought . . . Okay.”
“I mean, you just got back! You’re probably tired, and . . . I want it to be perfect. When it happens.”
She nods. “No, no. I get it.”
We sit in silence for a while. Her hands are on her knees and her shoulders tighten as if she’s in some horrible waiting room she wants to escape.
“Corinne, I really don’t want you to think that it’s in any way you.”
“I don’t. You know, I should probably unpack some stuff. . . .” She turns away, clearly trying to break the uncomfortable energy in the room.
“Oh, right. Okay,” I say, pulling myself off the bed, trying not to be too relieved at the dismissal. “Text me later? Please.”
“Yeah,” she says.
She walks me to the front door and stares at me for a moment. Her face isn’t betraying any emotion, which for someone as expressive as Corinne feels like the biggest tell possible that this is all profoundly fucked.
I eventually give her a peck on the cheek.
“I’m glad you’re back,” I reiterate. “You have no idea.”
She smiles, sheepish and uncertain, but at least it’s a smile. I head back to my place, somehow feeling even worse today than I did yesterday.
Twenty-Four
Things have felt off with Corinne ever since that afternoon in her apartment. We haven’t even really talked about it. Corinne ends up blowing it off like it was no big deal. (“I shouldn’t have pushed so hard. It was poorly planned. Can we please move on? I really don’t want to talk about it anymore.”) No matter what I say, I can tell that she blames herself. And I can’t do anything to fix it because if I told her the real reason I didn’t want to have sex that day, I’m pretty sure she’d never speak to me again. And possibly prosecute.
Columbia should be sending out their acceptances any day now. I haven’t heard anything about the email, so I figure that is that and I’m in the clear. Life just feels like it’s suddenly on the express train. FATE has started its annual march toward senior prom, all the extracurriculars are in full swing with final performances coming up in May, and championships are on the docket. Mostly, it all finally starts to become inescapably real. . . . The dreaded high school finish line.