“It was …”
I’ve got nothing. I groped him, and we both know it. The only thing I can do now is lie. “It was an accident.”
I hate when he does this. Looms over me this way with those eyes and that face. Looks at me. It is my new least-favorite thing: being looked at by West. Like he’s trying to sex me to death.
“Honey,” he says finally, “that was one hell of a long accident.”
“Don’t call me honey.”
“I think you like it.”
“I think your ears are too small.”
I nearly groan after I say it. Stupid blurting mouth.
But I had to say something, because honey is degrading to women, totally inappropriate, utterly unexpected. And I do kind of like it.
West exhales a laugh through his nose, smiling. “You have a gap between your front teeth.”
“It’s useful. I can spit through it.”
“I’d like to see that.”
“Well, you won’t get to.”
“Won’t I?”
“No. We’re not going to be friends. We’re not going to be anything. That’s what I wanted to tell you.”
He doesn’t like that. His mouth doesn’t, and his eyes don’t. “It’s not what it seemed like you wanted to tell me a minute ago.”
“I don’t care what it seemed like.” If he keeps leaning closer, I’m going to pinch him.
He leans closer. I pinch him.
Okay, I try. But my hand gets near his arm, and lust sucks me in, and then I’m just kind of groping his sleeve.
His biceps is as hard as it looks. I take my hand away before it can declare its allegiance to the enemy.
“Looked to me like you wanted me to kiss you,” West says.
I cross my arms and examine the books on the shelf behind his shoulder, a neat row of thick blue spines that say PMLA.
“It doesn’t matter,” I tell him. “I can’t afford it. If people think we’re together, or that what happened between you and Nate was about me, they’ll keep talking about it, and this whole mess will go on and on. That’s not what I want. I want it to go away.”
“You want it to go away.”
The doubt in his voice fires up my anger again. I hate that some people think I published those pictures myself, just for the attention. I hate that he might think it.
“Yes.” The word comes out a little louder than I intend, so I say it again. “Yes.”
“Rich Diehms called you a slut three minutes ago, and you didn’t say anything to him. You said it’s fine.”
“What do you want me to do, chase him down and punch him in the mouth?”
“Maybe,” he says. “Yell at him, at least.”
“What would that accomplish?”
“Does everything you do have to be about accomplishing something?”
Here, at least, is a question I can answer easily. “Yes.”
“So what are you trying to accomplish now?”
“I’m trying to get my pictures off the Internet, and I’m trying keep a low profile so people will forget it ever happened.”
He laughs at me.
My hand comes up so fast, I don’t even realize I’m about to smack him until he catches my wrist.
“Honey—”
“Don’t call me honey.” I’m struggling against his grip, so angry that he caught me and won’t let go. Caught me easily. I’ve never tried to slap someone before. I’m breathless and too emotional, balanced on the brink of tears. “Let me go.”
“You gonna hit me?”
“Maybe.”
“Then no.”
I wrench my wrist, then try pounding at his chest. He captures my other wrist.
“It’s a lost cause,” he says. “Trying to get at me. Just as hopeless as the idea you can erase something from the Internet or make people forget what you look like naked. Completely hopeless.”
Once his words sink in, I stop struggling, and he lets me go. I spear him with the iciest glare I can muster. “Thanks for the pep talk, but you are the last person on this campus I would ask for advice.”
Something in his eyes shuts down. “Oh? Why’s that?”
Because you’re a drug dealer.
Because you’re the kind of person who punches people when they piss you off.
Because you’re trouble.
I can’t tell him any of that. I can’t make myself sound like an angel. I suck dick on the Internet.
“Because I was with Nate. And you’re …”
When I trail off, he lifts one scarred eyebrow. “I’m?”
“Not Nate.”
This time, his laugh is bitter. “No,” he says. “I’m not Nate.”
I want to apologize, but I’m not sure how, or even what to say.
West doesn’t wait around for me to figure it out. He takes his cart, checks the spine of the next book in line, and begins rolling down the aisle away from me.
“I’m sorry,” I call to his back. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Don’t worry about it, princess,” he says without turning around. “I won’t say a word to anyone.”
“Okay.” I wrap my arms around my stomach. “Thank you.”
He doesn’t answer me. I guess we’re finished, and I’m relieved. Sort of.
I’m also shaky and weak. It seems possible I might puke.
West pauses, right in the middle of turning from our row to the next one. He leans over the cart, balancing his forearms on the books, staring down at them for a long, awkward minute that feels like a year.
He lifts his head and looks right at me. “This wasn’t a good day for us to have this talk.”
“No,” I agree. “Probably not.”
He blows out a breath. “I shouldn’t have hit him. It was a dumb-ass thing to do, and I’m still pretty wired from it. Sorry I …” He waves his hand at me. “Sorry for all that.”
I don’t know what to say, so I nod.
“Is your nose okay?”
“It’s fine.”
“It hurt?”
“A little. But it’s not a big deal.”
He flexes and releases his swollen hand a few times, staring down at it. It’s his left.
“What about your hand?” I ask.
“It’ll heal.”
The floor falls silent. I wonder if anyone is up here. If there’s a girl around the corner, sitting in silence, listening to this whole thing.
Maybe she’s like me. Scared and stuck, frozen in place.
“You know,” West says, “you didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Yeah. That’s what Bridget tells me.”
But she only says it because it’s what she’s supposed to say. I know what she really thinks. It’s the same as what I think—what everyone thinks.
I did do something wrong. I trusted the wrong person. I made a stupid mistake. I made it possible for Nate to take advantage of me, and it’s my responsibility to own up to it.
West shakes his head, as though he can hear all these thoughts, but he doesn’t buy it. “You took some sexy pictures with your guy. Lots of girls do it. If some girl gave me pictures like that, I’d never fucking stick them on the Internet, no matter how pissed at her I was.”
“You saw them?”
“Everybody saw them.”
I close my eyes against a stinging pressure in my sinuses and behind my eyes.
Crying isn’t on my schedule.
“He says he didn’t do it,” I whisper.
“That’s because he’s a douchebag. Douchebags lie.”
“Can we not talk about this?”
His head drops, his gaze falling back to the books. “All I wanted to say was, I don’t think you can make it go away. Not the way you’re doing it.”
I have no reply. It hurts too much to hear him articulate it—my worst fear—and for the second time today I feel as if he’s the one who hurt me, even though both times I did it to myself.