“What’s that for?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Don’t worry? How about you stop acting like an entitled caveman who can just kiss me when he wants to, throw me over his shoulder and carry me into his room and get out a condom, like that’s ever going to happen, who can just phone-sex me when he wants to get off and throw me away when he’s all done? How about—”

“Caroline.” He sits down on the bed. His voice is slow and soothing. “We got things to talk about. Could you maybe give it five minutes without the screeching?”

“I’m not screeching!”

But it comes out pretty screechy.

I turn around and face the wall, covering my face with my hands because it hurts too much to look at him.

I need to be angry, because if I stop being angry, all that’s left is disappointment and wanting, and I can’t afford either of them anymore. They cost too much. They’ve been taking too much out of me for too long.

His bedsprings squeak. Even that seems poignant, a sound I remember from being in his bed, his hands on me, his mouth. My eyes flood with tears, and I’m so disappointed with myself.

“Caroline.”

His voice is right behind me now. I’ve heard it like that, my name low and intimate, right before he comes. It’s more than I can bear—the way my heart lifts, my body responds, even as I’m trying to locate my anger and push back the tears. “Don’t.”

But he doesn’t listen. He puts one hand against the wall and the other at the small of my back. He leans in, his mouth by my ear, the heat of his body behind me close enough to feel, close enough to make me yearn, close enough to draw me back in if I let it, if I break, if I’m weak.

“Please,” he says.

There’s a knock on the door. “You okay, Caroline?”

Quinn’s voice. I can imagine her and Krishna and Bridget, lined up out there. Worried about me.

I think about the party tonight, the dancing, the feeling of being surrounded by people who love me.

I’m not weak. I’m a little drunk—getting more sober by the second—but I’m strong.

I draw in a deep breath and find that strength. Wrap it around me.

Then I take my hands away from my face and turn to face West. “I’m fine,” I call, loud enough for them to hear me. “He can have ten minutes.”

“You sure?” Krishna asks.

“Go watch your fucking movie,” West says.

After a moment, the volume on the TV goes up.

Then we’re just looking at each other, West and me. His face so perfectly not-perfect. That wide, smart-ass mouth that can make me feel electric, make me feel like I’m drowning, make me feel like I could live on him and him alone.

His mouth is a lie.

I take him apart, one piece at a time. Chin, cheekbones, nose, eyebrows. Those eyes. His pupils blown, light rims around them, dark circles beneath.

It’s just a face. West’s face.

His breath is just breath, reeking of alcohol.

He’s a man, standing there. Not a problem for me to solve. Not an obligation, not a need, not love. Maybe not even my friend.

I can almost make myself believe it.

“What do you want?” I ask.

His mouth opens. His eyes narrow. He puts his hand to the back of his neck, lowers his head, exhales.

“Yeah,” I say, because it’s easy to see right now. I’m not sure if it’s the false wisdom of all those blow jobs and beers or if it’s because I’ve been so angry, but I feel like all the pretense has been stripped away, all the cozy lies I’ve hidden behind burned off on the dance floor. I feel wise, and there are things I know that I haven’t known before.

Like this—this truth: West doesn’t know what he wants.

“That’s your whole problem, isn’t it?”

He made that speech in my room last month, told me, “I want you, and I don’t know how to stop wanting you. I want to get deep inside you, and then deeper, until I’m so deep I don’t even know what’s me anymore and what’s you.” He said that, but he hasn’t made up his mind about it. He’s afraid. He’s still drawing pencil lines around us.

I could tell him that it’s already too late. It’s been too late for a long time, maybe from the start.

Instead, I tell him, “I’m sick of waiting for you to figure it out.”

His eyes come up. Those little flecks glittering with something, some protest. Some plea.

“I’m sick of you acting like I’m just going to be whatever you want me to be. Maybe I have been so far. I guess I’ve done whatever you said, followed your rules. But I’m finished. This isn’t a game, and you’re not in charge of it. And I think—”

“Caro—”

“No. I’m talking now. You can fucking wait. I have been patient with you, but my patience is gone, West. You don’t get to barge into the line at the rugby thing and kiss me in front of everyone—in front of everyone, when you dumped me, when you’ve refused to admit we have something even to our friends for months now—and then walk away, like you’ve said your piece and that’s that. You don’t get to pick me up and throw me over your shoulder and drag me into your room like I don’t have a say in it. And put a condom in your pocket because, what? What if you feel like fucking me later? Might as well be prepared? No. You don’t get to do that. You want to be friends? We could have been friends. You want to be fuck buddies, you know, I was up for that! Probably I would’ve gotten too attached, gotten my heart broken, if we’re being honest, but so what? I wouldn’t be the first girl in the history of the world to let that happen to her. But you’re the one who said to let you know when I’m ready to see other guys, and you’re the one who dropped me after break like nothing we said or did on the phone mattered, so don’t pretend you have any right at all to play the jealous boyfriend when you’re not my fucking boyfriend.”

I’m poking him in the chest now, and it’s possible that I’m crying, but we’re not going to examine that too closely, because I need to do this. It feels like such a relief to get it out, to accuse him, to beat on him with these words I’ve been holding inside me for far too long.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“You should be sorry. You’ve been a jerk to me, and I just take it. I let you. But I’m not letting you anymore. You want to be with me, make up your fucking mind.”

He catches my face in his palms. I can’t even hear over the rush of blood in my ears, my pounding heart, my fury. I’m not sure what’s wrong with me. I said my piece. I should go, but he’s trapped me here between his hands, his eyes on me, and I don’t want to be anywhere else.

Everything I said is true, and I still want to be right here.

“You’re the coward.” My voice is hoarse. Low. Shocked, because I’m only now figuring this out.

“I know.”

“And a liar.”

“I know.”

“You’re playing with me.”

He shakes his head. “No. I’m not—I don’t mean to. I just can’t.”

“You can’t what?”

Another shake, and our noses bump and slide past each other. He’s not kissing me. He’s just right up against me, rubbing his cheek into mine. Scratching his stubble over my chin. I need you. That’s what he’s trying to tell me. I want you.

I need him, too. Want him, too. But it’s not fair of him to give me this and nothing else. It’s not enough.

“I can’t,” he repeats.

“I don’t even know what you’re talking about.” I don’t sound so harsh anymore. I sound gentle. I feel gentle, because, God, I care about him, even though it’s wrong and dumb. He’s hurting, and I care. “I can’t know, because you don’t tell me anything.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

Now I push his hands off me and grab his head, the way he did mine. I want him to see me. I want him to hear, to understand. I sink my fingers into his hair, hold him there. Make him listen. “You could tell me,” I say. “There isn’t anything you couldn’t tell me. God, anything—you know I’m on your side. And if you just told me …” I trail off, thinking what that would be like.