Winter break was endless. I slept in late and padded around the house in my slippers. The rest of the world was working, productive, but I had nothing to do.

I played six million games of Minesweeper, which—yeah, I don’t even know. Obviously there are better games. I couldn’t bring myself to commit to anything that involved more than one level or any sort of complex strategy.

It was draining, being home. Christmas in the Caribbean wore me out. Having to smile so much. Having to talk about my classes, my friends, my interests, and never mention West or the bakery, Nate or the pictures, any of it.

Keeping secrets is exhausting. When your whole life turns into a secret, what then?

I told my dad about rugby. He didn’t like the idea of me playing a tackle sport.

“You should play golf,” he said.

“Dad, I hate golf.”

“What’s wrong with golf?”

Golf made me think of West. How he caddies, so he must know when to hand somebody a nine iron or a sand wedge. How he must have opinions about drivers and wear some kind of a uniform—a crisp polo shirt, khaki shorts. He must look so different.

I pored over Google maps, searching for golf courses in Oregon, trying to guess which was his.

My grades came. Two A’s, two A-minuses. Dad put them on the fridge.

He asked if I was going to see Nate, and when I reminded him we broke up, he said, “You were friends before you were going out. Maybe it’s better not to burn that bridge.”

Obviously, I didn’t call Nate. I took a four-hour nap instead.

For New Year’s, Dad took me out to dinner and made a big thing out of letting me drink a glass of champagne. The next morning he gave me his credit card to buy myself “something nice.” Because I got good grades. Because he was so proud of me.

When I showed him the cashmere sweater I’d bought at the mall—the exact shade of West’s eyes—he kissed my temple, rubbed my shoulder, left me alone to watch bad movies in the den.

At night, long after Dad was asleep, I lay in the glow of the TV and waited for West to call.

I dozed off sometimes. I was so tired.

But when the phone rang, I woke up. I laughed. I craved. I yearned.

I flushed hot, dug my teeth into the flesh of my thumb, whispered words I never thought I’d own.

“Want you.” “Need you.” “Inside me.” “God, West.”

He would tell me things he wanted me to say. Dirty things that somehow weren’t dirty with him, they were just true. They were real. He would tell me, and I would say them. Anything he wanted.

There were words I didn’t say, though.

I miss you.

I love you.

I must have thought there would be time for that later. After break, when I saw him again, we’d be different. We’d be close—as close as we were on the phone. We’d be real.

I hadn’t learned yet that when your whole life is a sham, real isn’t something that happens to you.

Дата добавления: 2015-11-16