But what did you do to her?
T: Then what is it? Can we talk out on the balcony? I want to hear your voice.
M: My parents just went to bed. I can’t.
T: Then can I call you?
Without waiting for a response, he did. I let it ring out and then replied.
M: They’ll hear me. I can’t talk to you right now. I just need to process some things.
T: I can’t fix anything if you don’t tell me what the issue is.
M: I don’t know if this can be fixed.
T: Fuck. You’re really scaring me.
M: I’m sorry. I’ll talk to you tomorrow. I need to get some sleep.
He didn’t reply for a long time. All I could think about was him in his bed, staring at his phone. Was he confused? Angry? Scared? Pissed off?
Maybe all of those things. I knew I was.
When he finally did respond, it was a simple “OK.”
I put my phone away and rolled onto my other side, facing the wall, as tears pricked the backs of my eyes. He was the best thing that had happened to me in a long time. But was he who I thought he was? Or was I so desperate for human interaction that I was seeing something that wasn’t there?
The next morning, I looked more like shit than usual. The lack of sleep and crying had left my eyes puffy and my nose red; even my birthmark looked worse.
Some concealer would’ve covered the imperfections, and a swipe of mascara would’ve made my eyes look more open and alert. But I just looked wistfully at my makeup case and remembered how scratchy the fibers of that mop had felt and how the smell of bleach had choked me, and I settled for washing my face with cold water, hoping that would bring the swelling down.
Like every morning, I drank my coffee on the balcony and waited for Turner. He left later than usual—I guessed he hadn’t slept much either—his shoulders hunched, hood up, hands in pockets.
I waited until he was around the corner, then I left, pulling my own hood up and tucking my ponytail out of the way.
Most of the day passed in a blur as I went from class to class, took scattered notes that would probably make no sense later, and avoided Turner in the halls. I’d figured out his schedule—or at least which general area of the school he would be in at any point in the day. Usually I used this information to pass him in the hall, get a glimpse of him, hear his smooth, deep voice as he talked.
Today, I used it to keep as far away from him as possible.
Even Bonnie bumping into me and loudly declaring, “That was weird. I just knocked into thin air. Does anyone see anything?” didn’t make me feel as shitty as it usually did. A bunch of kids laughed as I walked away, but my mind was with Turner.
By lunch, my stomach was still churning, which meant I wasn’t even remotely hungry. But I was over feeling like shit.
School was shitty enough. I couldn’t have this hanging over my head too.
I sat down in the abandoned stairwell where I’d seen Turner talking to Jenny and got out my phone to text him.
He beat me to it.
T: Can we please talk? This is killing me.
M: Yes. I was just about to text you.
T: In person. Please. I want to talk to you.
M: Tonight? Balcony?
T: I can’t tonight. My dad needs me. Can I come meet you somewhere? Please, Mena!
M: Lunch is half-over. There’s no time.
T: I don’t care. Can’t fucking concentrate on anything anyway.
M: Me neither . . .
I chewed my bottom lip and racked my brain. I wasn’t ready for him to see me, but I needed to speak to him. I craved his touch, even as I worried it might burn me.
It would have to be somewhere dark.
The gym would be empty during lunch. We’d have to finish our talk before the next class came in to use it.
M: Meet me in the gym. There’s a storage room at the back next to the seating. We should have privacy there.
I grabbed my bag, rushing in that direction as fast as I could. I should’ve waited until I was there before sending that text. Hopefully I could get there first.
The gym was empty, and I ran across the polished floor to the back corner, praying the door to the storage room would be unlocked. Luck was on my side, and the heavy door opened.
I dashed inside and took a deep breath.
Sneakers squeaked on the polished gym floor. I’d only just beaten him. Had he been close by? Or had he rushed here like me?
It was pitch black in the dank space, but light would flood it as soon as he opened the door. I hurried toward the other end of the room and around the corner, darting past the industrial shelving that held balls and mats and other torture devices high school gym teachers had used since time immemorial. The room was an L shape, with another door leading outside, providing access to the equipment from the football field.
The door opened. Light streamed in. I held my breath. What if it wasn’t him?
“Mena?” he whisper-shouted into the room.
“Shut the door,” I said. “Quick.”
He closed the door, then cursed. “Where’s the light?”
“No!” I stepped in his direction. “Just leave it. Come toward me.”
“Are you fucking serious right now?” His voice had lost some of that silky-smooth quality, frustration and weariness creating ripples. But he shuffled forward.
“Follow my voice.” I reached a hand out. It was so dark I may as well have had my eyes closed. If I hadn’t been half-convinced we were about to break up (were we even together?) it would’ve been fun, seeking each other out in the dark.
My hand bumped his chest . . . and stayed there.
“There you are.” He lowered his voice, his hand landing on my ribs, then shifting up to my shoulder.
I felt so distant from him, so uncertain of who he was, what we were. But I couldn’t stop myself from getting closer. My feet shuffled forward; my other hand settled on his hip. And then we were moving as one, stepping into each other’s space, hands tentative at first but incapable of holding back. My arms wrapped around his waist, and his banded around my back. We were chest to chest. With my cheek over his heart, I listened to the thud-thud as my breathing began to match his without my even realizing it.
For a few moments, we just stood there, holding each other. I felt at home in his arms, even though I’d touched him only a handful of times through the bamboo and kissed him only once.
His soft voice broke the silence. “Mena, what are we doing here?”
“It’s called hugging.” He’d torn through my defenses without much more than his touch and solid presence. My mind had calmed, the churning in my stomach had settled, and I’d reverted to our usual banter. But there was nothing normal about this situation—about me.
“I’d like to turn on the light.”
“No. Please, Turner, don’t.” I tried to pull away, fully prepared to find an exit and run before he could see me. But he held on. His grip was firm but not insistent. I could’ve wrenched out of it if I’d really wanted to. I didn’t want to.
His chest expanded against mine in a deep sigh, which turned into a soft growl at the end. “I don’t understand this. We’ve been getting to know each other for weeks. I’ve told you things . . . I don’t care what you look like, Mena. I like you—your mind, your sense of humor, how you feel in my arms. What is the big deal? Why won’t you tell me who you are?”