St. Clair fol ows me, and I’m too exhausted to argue. His boots echo in the empty stairwel . Clomp. Clomp. Clomp. The lobby is dark and empty. The March wind rattles the glass on the front door. He fumbles around and switches on a light. It’s a Tiffany lamp, red dragonflies with bulbous turquoise eyes. I start lifting couch cushions.
“But you were on the floor the whole time,” he says. I think back, and he’s right. He points to a chair. “Help me lift this. Maybe it was kicked under here.”
We move it aside. No key.
“Could you have left it upstairs?” He’s uncomfortable, so I know he means at Dave’s.
“I don’t know. I’m so tired.”
“Shal we check?” He hesitates. “Or . . . shal I check?”
I shake my head no, and I’m relieved when he doesn’t press me.
He looks relieved, too. “Nate?”
“I don’t want to wake him.”
St. Clair bites his thumbnail. He’s nervous. “You could sleep in my room. I’l sleep on the floor, you can have my bed. We don’t have to, er, sleep
together. Again. If you don’t want to.”
That’s only the second time, apart from one of his emails at Christmas, either of us has mentioned that weekend. I’m stunned. The temptation makes
my entire body ache with longing, but it’s one hundred different kinds of a bad idea. “No. I’d—I’d better get it over with now. Because I’d stil have to see Nate in the morning, and then I’d have to explain about . . . about being in your room.”
Is he disappointed? He takes a moment before replying. “Then I’l go with you.”
“Nate’s gonna be mad.You should go to bed.”
But he marches over to Nate’s room and knocks. A minute later, Nate opens his door. He’s barefoot and wearing an old T-shirt and boxer shorts. I look
away, embarrassed. He rubs his shaved head. “Ungh?”
I stare at his diamond-patterned rug. “I locked myself out.”
“Mmm?”
“She forgot her key,” St. Clair says. “Can she borrow your spare?”
Nate sighs but motions us inside. His place is much larger than ours, with a private bath, a sitting room, and a ful -size (though tiny by American
standards) kitchen in addition to a separate bedroom. He shuffles over to a wooden cupboard in his sitting room. It’s fil ed with brass keys hanging on
nails, a painted golden number above each one. He grabs 408 and hands it to me. “I want that back before breakfast.”
“Of course.” I grasp the key so hard it dents my palm. “I’m sorry.”
“Out,” he says, and we scurry into the hal . I catch a glimpse of his condom bowl, which brings back another uneasy Thanksgiving memory.
“See?” St. Clair switches off the dragonfly lamp. “That wasn’t so terrible.”
The lobby is cloaked in darkness again, the only light coming from the screen saver on the front desk’s computer. I stumble forward, patting the wal s for guidance. St. Clair bumps into me. “Sorry,” he says. His breath is warm on my neck. But he doesn’t adjust his body. He stays close behind me as we
stumble down the hal .
My hand hits the stairwel door. I open it, and we shield our eyes from the sudden brightness. St. Clair shuts it behind us, but we don’t walk upstairs.
He’s stil pressed against me. I turn around. His lips are only a breath from mine. My heart beats so hard it’s practical y bursting, but he falters and backs away. “So are you and Dave ...?”
I stare at his hands, resting on the door.They aren’t little-boy hands.
“We were,” I say. “Not anymore.”
He pauses, and then takes a step forward again. “And I don’t suppose you’l tell me what that email earlier was about?”
“No.”
Another step closer. “But it upset you. Why won’t you tell me?”
I step back. “Because it’s embarrassing, and it’s none of your business.”
St. Clair furrows his brow in frustration. “Anna, if you can’t tell your best mate what’s bothering you, who can you tell ?”
And just like that, I have to fight to keep from crying for a third time. Because even with all of the awkwardness and hostility, he stil considers me his best friend. The news fil s me with more relief than I could have imagined. I’ve missed him. I hate being mad at him. Before I know it, the words spil out about Bridgette and Toph and prom, and he listens attentively, never taking his eyes from me. “And I’l never go to one! When Dad enrol ed me here, he
took that away from me, too.”
“But . . . proms are lame.” St. Clair is confused. “I thought you were glad we didn’t have one.”
We sit down together on the bottom step. “I was. Until now.”
“But ... Toph is a wanker.You hate him. And Bridgette!” He glances at me. “We stil hate Bridgette, right? I haven’t missed anything?”
I shake my head. “We stil hate her.”
“Al right, so it’s a fitting punishment. Think about it, she’l get dol ed up in one of those satin monstrosities no rational girl would ever wear, and they’l take one of those awful pictures—”
“The picture,” I moan.
“No. They’re awful, Anna.” And he looks genuinely revolted. “The uncomfortable poses and the terrible slogans. ‘A Night to Remember.’ ‘This Magic Moment’—”
“‘What Dreams Are Made Of.’”