“No, I’m good. Come on, let’s go,” he says, purposely turning from me again and walking the long way around the car as we exit the garage. I step outside on the main driveway and watch as he reaches up and pulls the sliding door down, locking the latch in place, letting out a heavy sigh while he crouches down. He sits there briefly, his hand against the door, almost like he’s adoring it, showing it affection.
We get to his truck, and he reaches for my bags, our hands touching when he does, his fingers grazing over the diamond. I feel him jerk away—and his reaction halts me, leaving my heart heavy and knocking the wind out of me.
“Sorry,” I say out of instinct, but meaning it more than he knows.
“It’s okay, here. Let me get your bag,” he says, his eyes down at the ground, avoiding me. I hand my bag to him and climb in the truck, mostly to escape the tension. I shut my door with care this time, embarrassed by my angry slam from yesterday. I push his mirror a little, straightening it back in place. I pull the visor down and smile at the plastic mirror that’s stuck to the underside with Velcro. My smile fades when I realize he probably put that up there for a past girlfriend—Kyla, I bet.
I’m about to flip it back up when I catch a glimpse of Cody at the back of the truck, reaching into the truck bed for a sweatshirt. He raises his arms over his head and pulls his dirty T-shirt from his body. I’m unable to look away. I’m entranced by the swirling tattoos and words that wrap up both arms and wind onto his chest—which is somehow tanned and chiseled in a way that’s so different from Trevor’s. Cody’s body is hard from work, from pushing himself to the limit, from the life he lives. Trevor’s body is the result of discipline and nightly trips to the gym—the result of privilege.
I catch his eyes in the mirror, and I flip the visor up, my breath hitching, and my pulse racing from getting caught. When he slides in the seat next to me, I notice he’s pushed himself up against the door, his arm hanging out. He’s putting distance between us. We’re quiet for most of the drive, and all I can think about are those few moments we’ve had together, how it felt that night in his room, and that night in the corn maze—how I’ll never feel that way again. I turn to look out my window so Cody can’t see the water building in my eyes, but when I sneak my hand up to wipe the tears away, I hear him take in a heavy breath.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” I say, letting a single tear fall down my face while I have the chance.
“It’s okay,” Cody says. His voice betrays him—every time. I don’t know if it’s this strange connection we have, but I know when he’s lying, when he’s hurting, when he’s happy, and when he’s not. And that was a lie.
“No, it’s not. And I’m sorry. I wanted to talk to you about…you know…on my own,” I say. I wait for him to say something, anything, but he doesn’t.
We drive the rest of the way home, and Cody helps me carry my bag to the front door before turning and going into his own garage. I watch him walk away. I watch every step until he’s completely out of sight, and even then, I still watch, waiting and hoping he’s seeing me watch him—somehow knowing just how sorry I am. I’m sorry our timing wasn’t better. I’m sorry I hurt him. I’m sorry I didn’t meet Cody first.
I crack a little at that thought, pick up my bag, and head straight up to my room, the rest of the house its usual quiet. I pull out my book and open it to the drawings of Cody’s shop. Then I flip on the light at my desk and work on Cody’s shop some more. I sketch all day, until the moon is out, and then I slide over to the window seat and watch Cody’s garage, waiting for the light to turn on or off. I wait to see movement—see him—but when I don’t after two hours, I relent and dress for bed.
I’m about to pull the covers up, when I have a thought. I unplug my phone from the charger and open my book to my newest drawings to take a picture. Then I open my message and write to him:
I know you don’t want to talk to me. I understand, and I don’t blame you. But I truly am sorry. And I think I still need you in my life. I worked on the drawings a little more, and I’d love to show you.
I attach the pictures and send my message off. Gripping the phone to my chest, I lay under my blankets in the dark and wait. I wait for another hour, and my eyelids are heavy. The clock shows 3:00 a.m. I have class in the morning, and I know I need to sleep, but I will myself to give it five more minutes.
The vibration sends excited chills up my spine, and I can’t seem to slide open the message on my phone quickly enough.