“The email was an accident,” I snap.
“Was the kiss?”
“That was just a mistake,” I say, and I’m frustrated and tired and hurt and stressed and hungry, and on one hand I feel like crying and on the other I feel like shouting at Caleb and on the third, non-existent hand, I want to make another mistake and kiss him again.
“My mom had just been in a car accident and we’d been driving all night, it was late, I was tired and stressed and emotional and there’s study after study that shows people in heightened emotional states have poor judgement,” I say, my eyes closed.
I will not cry. I will not cry.
“It seemed like a great idea at the time, but obviously, it wasn’t, and I’m sorry. If I could take it back I would, but to the best of my knowledge no one has figured out how to interrupt the time stream yet and if they had I’m sure it wouldn’t be available to private citizens who did something dumb.”
“Apology accepted,” Caleb says, his face stone.
“Great,” I say, way, way more sarcastically than he deserves. “I’m walking home. Don’t come with me, I think I’ll make it two blocks without getting mugged or abducted.”
I turn on my heel and stomp away, down the street. Full-on stomp because if I’m behaving like a child, why not go all the way and really sell the performance?
“Good night,” he calls after me.
I feel like shit. More than anything, I suddenly feel like too much, all at once: I feel like I want to march back there and kiss him hard and tell him to take me home and have his way with me. I’m witheringly, incineratingly angry that the one person I’ve felt that way about in my life is a man I absolutely, positively cannot have.
I’m mad that he keeps flirting with me when he knows the same. I’m mad that he’s so genuinely kind, that he’s sharp and smart and looks hot holding a baby, that he’s not like anyone else I’ve ever met.
I stomp to my apartment and unlock the building’s front door without looking back at him. Somehow, I know that he stood there and watched me until I got inside, making sure I was safe. Yes, that also makes me mad.
I’m a wreck, I think, slogging my way up the stairs into my building, an old house that now has an apartment on each floor. Just a damn useless wreck.
Then I take a deep breath, keep slogging.
You’re not a wreck, I tell myself. You’re tired and stressed and overworked. Your family circumstances have you emotionally stretched thin.
And, okay, you’re frustrated because you want someone you can’t have.
Also, hungry. Don’t forget hungry. When was dinner?
When I get upstairs, Margaret and Victoria are in the living room, Margaret on her laptop on the couch, Victoria eating cereal at the table.
“Halloween,” I announce.
They both look over at me, eyebrows raised, as if they can see the storm cloud over my head.
“Two guys,” I say, holding up two fingers. “That’s how many guys I’m gonna make out with. Two. I’m gonna dress sexy and have sexy fun and make out with people.”
Who are not my calculus professor.
“Okay,” says Victoria.
“Attagirl,” says Margaret. “Are we talking successive or simultaneous makeouts?”
“Don’t care,” I say, heading through the living room for my bedroom. “Either one, as long as there’s two, because I am getting on the express train to Makeout City. Good night!”
“Night!” they both call, and I shut my bedroom door behind myself, sling my laptop bag onto the floor.
Then I take off my jacket, and when I do, I realize I’m still wearing Caleb’s scarf.
In one final fit of pique, I take it off and fling it into my closet.Chapter Twenty-FiveThalia“Okay, wait, give me a few more guesses,” Josh shouts over the thump of the bass from the next room, leaning in toward me. “You’re a sexy CEO.”
“No,” I shout.
He takes another sip from his red solo cup. I’m not sure what’s in there, but I’m pretty sure it’s blue, so it’s not beer. I assume the frat brothers here have some special booze stash in the back that’s only for them.
I, on the other hand, have some pretty strict guidelines about what I’m willing to drink at a frat party. If I don’t see it come out of a bottle, or preferably a keg, it doesn’t go in my mouth.
“Sexy lawyer,” he shouts.
I take a tiny sip of my drink — a now-warm beer that I got from the keg my very own self — and shake my head.
“Give me a hint,” he says.
“I’m a specific person,” I say, and point at the cigar in my pocket.
He gives me one more up-and-down look, and I glance away from him, back at the doorway to the dance floor.