The Unrequited Page 20

  The top is empty except for a dusty small lamp. Not even a pen resides. I wonder if it’s his organizational skills at work or something more. It feels like more.

  I glance at the boxes, the whole mountain of them by the wall. They are labeled Old, NYU, Poetry, Literary, and so on. I stop at the one labeled Anesthesia. It’s taped up. I want to tear it open and see what’s inside. What are the chances of him noticing if I steal something from here?

  “Don’t even think about it.”

  Jumping, I whirl around. “Think about what?”

  Thomas switches on the light on the desk, throwing the room into stark relief. The yellow light is the same as his office, reminding me of our fucking in the shadows. I press my hand on my stomach where I feel something moving.

  “Taking my things without permission.”

  “I wouldn’t,” I scoff. “I was just looking around.”

  “Strangely, I’m not surprised.” His tone is dry. “Sit.” He points to the desk, and that’s when I notice he’s carrying a first aid box.

  I walk over and shimmy my ass onto the surface. He watches my every move, making me very aware of my own body, especially my bare thighs and calves.

  He sits at the chair, which creaks under his weight, and a shot of arousal runs through my core. If I get any wetter, I’ll leave prints on his desk, and this isn’t the time. I’m trying to be good, respectful.

  Lusting after Thomas in his own home is wrong, more wrong than anything we’ve done till now. Isn’t a house supposed to be a safe place? And I’m invading that safe place with my sullied, ruined presence.

  Thomas puts his hand on my right knee and it jerks. It isn’t even a sensual touch. There’s a no-nonsense, clinical quality to it as he puts my foot on his thigh. He does the same with my other leg, barely touching me, barely lingering on the skin, but I feel it all the same.

  The silence is thick, thicker than the delicious muscles of his thighs that I want to rub against—but I won’t. I might be a slut, but even I have limits. Not here. Not here. Not here.

  He reaches over and fishes bandages and other stuff out of the box with tight, jerky movements. I have a feeling that, like me, he’s holding on to his control by a thread.

  “Uh, did you always want to be a poet?” My voice is squeaky, but I need to fill this stupid quiet.

  He doesn’t answer for a while, dabbing alcohol onto a ball of cotton and then putting it on my wound without warning, making me wince and curse. He watches me through his lashes before focusing on my trembling thighs.

  “I’m not good with words,” he says, startling me. “Or rather, talking. When I was a kid, I’d go days without talking to anyone at school, buried in textbooks, comics, and stuff. Sometimes I felt like I had a lot to say but didn’t know how.” He pauses to clean the wound on my other knee. This time I’m prepared so I don’t jump too much. “Then I found my dad’s journals, his poems, and I knew.”

  “Knew what?” My hands are holding on to the edge of the desk. It’s my way of stopping them from sinking into his gorgeous hair.

  “That this was the way for me to talk.”

  “Your dad was a poet too?”

  “Not a real one.” I’m confused at his meaning and he explains, “He never published anything.”

  “Oh,” I offer lamely. His definition of a “real” poet doesn’t sit well with me, but what do I know? I’m not even a fake poet. “He must be super proud of you, then.”

  “He’s dead.” He finishes bandaging my other knee. “Besides, I’m not a poet anymore.”

  Before I can ask what he means by that, he asks a question of his own. “So did you always want to be a stalker?”

  His fire-breathing eyes…they are smiling, slightly. I should be offended that he’s laughing at me, but I’m not. In fact, I genuinely think about it. “Well, I guess, yeah. It was kind of inevitable. I’ve always been invisible to everyone, to my mom, my dad. I don’t even know if he remembers me.” I shrug. “And to…Caleb. I always watched them through the shadows. So, yeah, it made perfect sense for me to become a crazy stalker.”

  By the time I finish my explanation, Thomas has a permanent tic in his jaw like a livewire crackling with dangerous electricity. I think about the cause for it. Is it because I mentioned Caleb again? I tamp down a delicious shiver at how he convinced me that he is different than him.

  “Thomas?”

  His name called out in an unfamiliar, a feminine voice chills me more than the winter ever can.

  Is it…Is it Hadley? Is she here? How could Thomas do this to me? Bring me in his house when his wife was here all along?

  Thomas stands up. The creak of the chair sounds more like a death knell this time.

  How could he do this to us, my heart cries.

  “Susan, this is Layla.”

  For a second, I sit there. It’s Susan. Not Hadley. Susan.

  Oh God, who’s Susan?

  I jump down from my perch like someone injected me with a shot of adrenaline. Susan is an old but beautiful woman with the face of what I imagine a warm grandmother would have. My grandparents—too many of them—have faces carved out of Botox.

  “H-Hi.” I move away from Thomas and stand to the side, hands primly folded in front of me.

  “Hello.” She is confused. She looks from him to me and then back again. “Is everything okay?”

  We weren’t doing anything. I wasn’t even touching him.

  “Yes.” Thomas’ face is blank. “I’m going to take her home now. Is Nicky still sleeping?”

  “He is. I just woke up to get a glass of water.”

  “Okay. I’ll see you in a bit then.” Without looking at me, Thomas issues his command, “Come on.”

  I give Susan a tremulous smile, which she returns, and follow Thomas. I feel her stare on my back and I don’t know if it’s my newfound paranoia or if she really knows something is going on. I collect my clothes from the island and Thomas drives me home.

  The ride is silent and tense. I don’t know what happened. I’m freaking out, breaking into a sweat and slathering his leather seats.

  When he stops the car in front of my tower, I turn to him. “I’m sorry. For…For showing up the way I did.”

  He stares ahead, his fingers flexing on the steering wheel. “You should be.”

  “It won’t happen again. Ever,” I tell him. “Will… Is Susan—”

  “You don’t have to worry about Susan.” He looks at me, and something in his eyes puts me at an uneasy sort of ease. She won’t tell, but she’ll know, and that’s even worse. Silent reprimand. How does she know, though? Could she tell just by looking at us? Are we that transparent in our lust for each other?

  Thomas is waiting for me to get out, but I can’t go. Not yet. “What did you mean when you said you aren’t a poet anymore?”

  His sigh is sharp and long. “Nothing. I didn’t mean anything. Now, go home.”

  “Last night you told me you forgot about her, because…because you were too busy with your words.” A dreadful feeling makes a home in my chest as I put all the pieces together. “Are you… Did you quit? Is that why you came here?”

  How is that even possible? How can he quit writing? How can anyone?

  “Get out.”

  But I don’t budge. “Thomas, that’s ridiculous. I mean, you’re too good to quit. You love this stuff. And how can you even do that? How can you un-become a poet?”

  Thomas turns to me, his face stark and white within the tinted windows of his car. “Get the fuck out.”

  I should be offended. I should be. Really. There are many things about him that should offend me. He is rude and mean and made of thorny, jagged edges, but I’m crazy enough to see what he doesn’t show me—his raw and unpolished pain.

  “Thomas—”

  “Just…go, Layla. Just go. Leave. I… It fucking hurts me to hurt you, but I’ll do it. I’ll keep doing it because that’s just who I am, so you need to cut your losses and move on.”

&nb
sp; Like Hadley, I add silently. The love of his life, for whom he’s given up the very thing that defines him—his words.

  Right here, in the confines of his car, I hear my innocence shatter. Whatever I’ve believed in is gone. Apparently, love isn’t enough.

  And right here, I decide I’ll never leave Thomas. I’ll never abandon him like his wife did.

  I’m being sneaky this morning. I told Emma I had an early appointment with a made-up professor. She didn’t question it because, well, she is out of it these days. I’m waiting for Dylan outside our poetry class. I called him a while ago and asked him to meet me here. He’s already late, and we only have just about thirty minutes before class starts.

  The sound of hurried footsteps alerts me to Dylan’s arrival. He is cold and panting and clutching a mug of hot coffee as he comes closer. “Hey, sorry. I got a little held up.”

  I stare at the mug and strangely, I don’t have any urge to steal a sip from him. Thomas is the only person I want to steal things from now.

  “So what’s up? You said it was something important?” Dylan asks.

  “Yes. Why are you being so stupid?”

  His brows draw together. “What? What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about how you’re being stupid with Emma.” I fold my hands and lean on the wall. “Why are you guys still fighting?”

  “I’m not fighting with her.”

  “Really? Then why’s Emma always moping? And how come you don’t come around?”

  It’s been a week of fighting between them and Dylan hasn’t shown up at the apartment. It’s always Matt, and he always steals all my Twizzlers—which is so not good—but mostly, I’m worried about Emma. I’m worried that something that isn’t either of their fault is causing a rift between them. It’s really silly to fight over something her mom did such a long time ago.

  “I think you guys are being really stupid and dramatic,” I add, without giving Dylan a chance to talk. “I mean, you guys love each other. Do you know how rare that is? Why can’t you get over it?”

  Dear God, I could slap him silly for squandering away something so precious.

  “Hey, I’m fine with it, okay? I’m fine with patching things up, but she’s being unreasonable. I even apologized about the whole mom thing, and what does she do? She agrees to go to Florida with Matt for spring break.”

  “What?”

  “You didn’t know about that?” I shake my head, stunned. “Well, apparently Matt and Emma are going to Florida for a few days to chill out, all because we had a stupid fight. If she wants to make me jealous, she can go ahead and do that.”

  “But that doesn’t sound like her. That does not sound like her at all.”

  He shakes his head. “I don’t even care. It’s just too much hassle to begin with. We never should’ve started going out.”

  I stand up straight and widen my eyes at him. “What? No! You guys are great together. And you love her. And she loves you. There’s obviously more to the story.”

  Dylan goes quiet and stares at me. It’s weird, the way he’s looking. He’s gone all shy and awkward as he runs a hand over the back of his neck. “Your eyes are…huge.”

  “Huh?”

  “I mean, they are…they are beautiful.”

  “O-kay. Dylan—”

  “I had a crush on you last semester. I mean, I liked you. Crush sounds so juvenile.” He throws out a nervous laugh and somehow comes even closer to me.

  “Dylan, that’s just—”

  “I always thought you were beautiful, and well, when I saw you in Professor Abrams’ class, I-I wanted to ask you out…”

  He trails off and bends his head toward me. I know what’s coming. I know he’s going to kiss me before he even puts his mouth on my lips. He smells of coffee and cold, and his lips are soft, and maybe a little bit dry.

  I am frozen under him. It’s not fear—I know he won’t hurt me—it’s something else. Maybe shock? I’m stunned at his actions, but as he slips his tongue out to trace the seams of my lips, I jerk back.

  He is hurt—it’s there in his eyes—and slightly ashamed, not because I didn’t reciprocate, but because of his fight with Emma. He is jealous and he wants some control back. God, men are so simple.

  Before I can tell him my conclusions, I feel someone staring at us. Dylan feels it too, and he moves out of the way and turns around. It’s Thomas. His gaze is pinned on me and his jaw is locked shut.

  It’s obvious he saw the kiss. Shit. I move away from Dylan because nothing happened between us. I want to go to Thomas and tell him it didn’t mean anything. I even take a step forward, but then I remember where we are—and more importantly, who we are to each other.

  I can’t run across the space and jump into his arms. I’m afraid to even smile at him. My lips might spill our secret. It hits me how we can’t do the little things that normal couples do. We are not even a couple.

  “Hey, Professor,” Dylan greets, nervously.

  Thomas barely spares him a glance as he begins walking toward us. What is he doing? I swallow a thick knot at his hardened expression, his determined strides. My legs move of their own accord and take a couple of steps back.

  He pauses in front of me. His eyes are so blue, so flaming. I can’t stand it. I open my mouth to say something—anything is better than this aggressive silence—but Thomas cuts me off. “Excuse me.”

  I blink up at him. “What?”

  He studies me for the length of four beats. “You’re in my way.”

  I lick my lips and his eyes flare, become even bluer, if possible. An answering tug in my belly makes me want to arch up to him—and that’s exactly the kind of thing I cannot do. It serves as a wake-up call and I look around. I am, indeed, in his way. I’m blocking the door.

  “Sorry,” I say, looking up at him.

  As soon as I move aside, he passes me and enters the room.

  The class goes by quickly. We discuss Satyr by a seventeenth-century poet, John Wilmot. According to him, men are beasts and society civilizes those beasts. So fuck society. Fuck rationality. Do whatever you want to do. Don’t judge your impulses, just act on them. I’d believe him if it weren’t for the fact that he had a steady stream of mistresses and that he died of an STD.

  Thomas never looks at me once. He appears normal, no signs of anger or anything, as if the scene from earlier didn’t happen. Am I the one making a big deal out of it? Maybe he didn’t mind. Maybe it didn’t even register on his radar. I should be happy about this because it was, in fact, nothing, but I am not. I am the opposite of happy right now. I am… I can’t tell what I am, but it’s not good.

  When the class is done, I decide to talk to Thomas about it, but I don’t get the chance. A couple of girls—whose names I don’t even know—surround him, asking questions. Usually, Thomas is reserved. He never encourages discussion, dashing out of class before anyone gets the chance to ask him anything, but today he is lingering, answering all their questions with patience. He is smiling at them, nodding and talking. He never does that. Never.

  It’s making me feel worse by the second. I have too much useless, restless energy inside me. It’s making me horny. It’s making me crazy. I just want him to look at me once. Just once.

  When I can’t take it anymore, I jerk out of my seat and dash out of there. I run across campus to my next class. I sit beside the window, looking out at the snowy courtyard. The serenity of it all is making everything worse. Why isn’t the world exploding with me? I know I should channel all this frustration into something productive, like writing. But fuck writing. Fuck everything.

  Why wouldn’t he look at me? Why would he talk to those girls? Why didn’t that meaningless kiss affect him?

  I stand up and my chair screeches loudly. The professor halts midsentence. People are staring at me, but for once, I don’t care. I collect my things and address the professor, hastily saying, “I, uh, I’m not feeling well so I’m gonna leave.”

  I don’t wait for
his reply as I bound down the stairs of the lecture hall and run out of there. Ten minutes later, I’m inside the Labyrinth, dodging the crowd that always lingers in the corridors as if the classes are too small to fit this many people. A flash later, I’m standing in front of his office, my hand on the knob. I open the door and find Thomas in his chair, his head bent over some papers.

  I close the door behind me, shutting out the noises, or at least dulling them. His attention usually makes me calmer. It soothes something inside of me, the animal that growls when he isn’t around.

  But I’m not calming down today.

  “It didn’t mean anything,” I say without any preamble. “The kiss. Dylan was just angry and…well, he kissed me, but I moved away.”

  Apart from putting his pen down, he remains silent, but something lurks on his face, a softening of his features. I can’t explain what it means. My mind is clouded. Thomas stands up and rounds the desk, but he doesn’t approach me.

  “You’re mad, right? You’re mad because he touched me, aren’t you? You have to be. You have to be angry and…and jealous, because I’m angry. I’m so fucking angry that I can’t think straight.” I come to stand before him. His smell invades my lungs and I shiver. “You never talk to students. You are never nice to them. So why were you being nice to those…girls? I don’t even know their names but I hate them.”

  “Melanie,” he says in a gravelly voice.

  “What?”

  “That’s one of the girls’ name.”

  “It’s a stupid name.”

  “You don’t like it?” His lips bloom into a mocking, lopsided smirk.

  “No. I hate it. And I hate you right now.”

  His eyebrows arch and I move even closer. The tips of our boots are touching. He’s wearing the same boots from that night long ago, a lifetime ago when I thought I had a crush on him and when I thought he was a man who had everything.

  It was a foolish thought. I never had a crush, and Thomas might be the poorest man alive. What I feel for him is indefinable, and I have no desire to think about it right now.