I wonder, sometimes, why I couldn’t see what was happening.

I mean, it was obvious to absolutely everyone. It should have been obvious to me. That night on the roof, how it ended, how my lips felt soft and changed for hours afterward, how I kept touching them, how I couldn’t think of anything else. Not for days.

That ridiculous deal we struck.

My impatience for Bridget to go to her Tuesday/Thursday morning class so I could sit on my bed and wait for his knock. Two taps, always two. And I would go to the door and pull it open, and there he’d be. Back again, when I’d been afraid that this was the day he wouldn’t show.

Back again to lie on my bed and put his mouth all over me, his hands all over me, to breathe hot and short against my neck while I pretended that my heart wasn’t dark and rich, full to bursting with the sound and smell and taste of him.

I don’t know why I didn’t understand. I guess I was afraid.

I never knew there could be so much ecstasy in fear.

He’s been avoiding me for a week. More than a week. Nine days.

At first I didn’t realize. I was too wrapped up in my brain fog of what-the-heck-happened, and then I went out to brunch with my dad, who wanted to talk about My Future. Only now the conversation was more awkward than ever, because part of me was happily nodding along, thinking, Yes! I’m going to get a great internship this summer, but I also had to contend with the chorus of Internet Asshats saying, Not with your cunt online!

And, meanwhile, the new, completely West-centric part of my brain was busy squeeing, I got stoned and made out with West on the roof—O-M-effing-G.

All of which means that I missed a lot of cues, said weird things, and got frowned at by my dad, who didn’t understand why I’d turned into such a freak.

I drove back to school on Sunday afternoon and sent West a text when I arrived. He wrote back, Cool.

Cool.

Who even says cool?

I don’t know, but I told myself maybe it was good that he didn’t seem too enthused to see me. We probably needed some time apart, a few days to sort through what that … that episode on the roof meant. And since I’d just had a serious talk with my dad, I’ll admit, I figured I could use a little space from West, to think about what I was doing.

I watched a lot of TV and bad movies with Bridget. I went to Quinn’s room with Krishna and split two six-packs and laughed at Harold & Kumar.

I didn’t think about what I was doing.

I didn’t go to the bakery, either. I would have on Tuesday night, but West usually texts to ask if he’s going to see me, and he didn’t. So I didn’t. I slept instead. Straight through the night, like a normal person.

I did it again Wednesday night.

Thursday I sent him four texts, but he didn’t answer them.

Friday I sent him a fifth. WTF, West?

He wrote back three hours later. Sorry. Busy.

Saturday, Sunday—nothing. I went to rugby practice and accomplished my first really great tackle. I hung out with Quinn and Bridget after. I asked Quinn if she’d seen West since break, and she said, “Yeah, why?”

No reason.

By Monday, though, all the stuff I didn’t want to think about was making its existence known. I was starting to feel shitty. The Asshat Chorus was getting loud.

You knew when you invited him over, the men said. You knew when you had him bring the weed. You wanted him to fuck you on top of that roof.

Did I? I can’t remember. I can’t decide. Everything seems so murky.

That night, I broke down and told Bridget what had happened, and she got so pissed at West.

“He can’t treat you like that! It’s not right!”

She convinced me to call him. I left an angry voice mail. I texted again, demanding he get in touch with me. Bridget grabbed my phone out of my hand and called him a “fucker,” which I then apologized for, but he still didn’t text me back.

I couldn’t sleep after that. Bridget snored softly in her bunk above me, and I pulled out my phone and wrote: I feel terrible about what happened on the roof.

I feel dirty.

I feel ashamed.

Why aren’t you talking to me?

In the morning, I wished I could take those texts back. Overdramatic much, Caroline?

But they were sent, and that was that.

It’s Tuesday after class when he texts me back. The phone chimes when I’m lying on my stomach, staring at my fingernails and trying to work up some enthusiasm for lunch.

Nothing dirty about it, West writes.

A whole sentence fragment. How about that?

Then why are you avoiding me?

I’m not. I’m busy.

That never stopped you before.

Sorry.

I wait to see if he’s going to give me a better explanation, but he doesn’t, and I’m so sick of it. I’m sick of him.

I’m sick of myself, too. How am I letting this happen? After what Nate did, I didn’t let the misery get me down. I took action. Now one kiss from West and I’m reduced to this text-groveling?

Fuck that.

Come over to my room and talk to me, I text. Right now.

I have class.

I look at the clock. Not for an hour.

Nothing for a moment. I scroll back through the blue and green bubbles of our conversation, trying to recognize myself in these demands. Trying to recognize the West who rubbed my neck in the apartment, who put his hand on my thigh and asked me what he was going to do about me. The West who said, “This is completely my fault,” right before he kissed me senseless.

Ok, he texts.

And then I wait.

Well, all right, I change into jeans and put my hair down and then I wait.

I don’t know why we have a cliché about watched pots and boiling water. Clearly there should be one about waiting for a boy you kissed while stoned on a roof to come by and explain himself.

A watched West never shows up.

But, you know, less lame.

Finally, after an eternity, he knocks twice. I open the door, and I don’t know. I don’t know. His pale eyes are West’s eyes, and his face is West’s face, and how did I not see him for nine whole days? How did I forget what he does to me?

I want to sink into him, weave our fingers together, kiss his closed eyelids, and welcome him back.

I don’t do it. I’m not completely crazy. But the wanting is there, oppressive as a hand pushing me under.

Kind of beautiful, too.

I look away, desperate to get ahold of myself. He’s wearing a coat that seems gray at first, but when you get close up you see it’s made of black and white stripes close together in a kind of chevron pattern. I can’t imagine where somebody would get a coat like that, except maybe my grandpa’s closet. It should be strange or ugly, but it’s like everything West wears—he makes it seem sexy. Like old-man coats are the thing this year.

“Nice coat.”

He gives me that blank look. As though I’m the woman at the dining hall who swipes his ID. Some anonymous person he barely knows. “Thanks.”

I step back. He’s never been in my room before. It’s a little surprising how small he makes it, just by walking into the middle of it.

“You want me to take that?”

He shrugs off his old-man coat and drops it on the couch. Then drops himself down next to it.

One of his eyebrows is a little lifted, which I guess is supposed to mean, Well, Caroline?

I sit on the bed. I pull my pillow onto my lap, pluck at the pillowcase, which has Smurfs on it. They’re supposed to be ironic Smurfs, but maybe that’s like ironic whale pants. An impossibility.