44

Aster

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I’ve never been dumped before. Jerry’s my only proper boyfriend, and I dumped him when he confessed to cheating on me. But that whole evening he’d been acting strange, not making eye contact, fidgeting, being distracted. When I pressed him for answers I thought he was going to say he’d gotten a bad mark on an essay or had a fight with his mom; I never expected him to say he’d gotten a blow job at a bar.

Now, as Aidan picks at the toppings on his meat lover’s pizza—his favorite kind—I’m waiting for the same bad news and remembering my stupid joke at the library: I don’t care if you’re cheating on me. That’s not true at all. I would care. I would be devastated.

I try to keep my hand from shaking as I reach for my beer and take a fortifying sip. As bad as the news was about my father’s death, what was worse was the build up. Finding the letter, hiding the letter, ignoring the phone calls. I’d peeled back the bandage with agonizing slowness when I could have saved myself a lot of pain if I’d just mustered up the nerve to yank it off and admit there was a wound.

“Is it about Sindy?” I ask abruptly. I watch Aidan for any sign of guilt but the only emotions that cross his handsome face are confusion and surprise.

“What?” he exclaims, sounding sincere. “From the bar? The pros—What? No. No. God. No.”

“Someone else?” I push. I know there’s a secret, I just don’t know what the hell it is.

“No!” he exclaims. “Aster, I’m not cheating on you. I wouldn’t.”

“Then what’s going on?”

He drops the pizza and runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. “Nothing. Jesus. I’m just tired. Work. School. You know the drill.”

“The squirrel story is true,” I say quietly. “You can trust me. With anything.”

He studies the table for a second, hands flat on the surface, the ink on his knuckles stark against his skin. Ride hard. He looks like he’s working up to something, but instead of a confession he gives me a small smile. “I know I can,” he says, reaching out to stroke my jaw with his thumb. “It’s just stress. End of year stuff and all that. You’re the only reason it’s bearable. Don’t let me mess up.”

I cover his hand with mine. “I won’t.”

“Good.” He leans in to kiss me, soft and sweet, just his lips on mine, his fingertips on my cheek. He takes his time, almost too much time, and finally I’m the one to touch my tongue to his bottom lip, nudge him open, deepen the kiss.

He makes a soft sound in his throat and lets me in, the intimacy sweet and reassuring. I shift to the edge of my chair and he slides his hands around my waist, pulling me onto his lap, my thighs straddling his. I curl my fingers in his hair, press my breasts against his chest, my nipples tight, an ache growing between my legs. What I don’t feel, however, is him.

And not just because there’s still some sort of emotional distance, but because he’s not hard. I tell myself it’s stress, stop being so impatient, but after several long minutes of kissing and groping and hips grinding, there’s just...nothing. I try to slip a hand between us to make sure I’m not missing anything, but he tenses and snags my wrist before my fingers can locate his waistband.

“Aster,” he says, twisting away. He looks like he’s going to say more, then falters and falls silent.

I’m breathing hard, but it’s not arousal coursing through me, it’s dread. It’s how you feel lying in bed as a kid, convinced there’s a monster in the dark closet, knowing one wrong move will set it free.

I lean forward and press a kiss to Aidan’s jaw, trying to diffuse the situation. “It’s been a long week,” I say calmly. Supportively. “Want to watch a movie in bed and call it a night?”

I hear him swallow, see his throat move, and know the answer before I hear it.

“I think I’m just going to go,” he says, avoiding my stare. “Wes has been sick all week. I might have caught whatever he has.” He presses my hips gently, urging me to stand, and I clamber off, feeling graceless and unsteady.

A good girlfriend might offer to accompany him to the pharmacy, make him chicken noodle soup, take his temperature.

But a good boyfriend wouldn’t lie.

My bandage metaphor from earlier was wrong. Maybe slowly peeling it off isn’t the most painful thing you can do. Maybe the thing that hurts the most is leaving the bandage in place, letting it hide a festering wound while you pretend there’s nothing wrong.

* * *

“Think he’s cheating on you?”  Missy asks with her characteristic bluntness.

We’re at an outdoor café in the middle of campus, and her question turns a few curious heads.

“No,” I mumble, stirring my tea, wishing the spring sunshine didn’t feel like an interrogator’s spotlight. “He said he wasn’t.”

“Do you believe him?”

I study the swirling liquid. “I don’t know. Even if he’s not cheating, it’s something. I don’t know why he wouldn’t tell me; he knows my secrets.”

“Oh yeah? Spill.”

I smirk, the closest I can come to smiling today. “No.”

“C’mon, I’ll tell you mine.”

“I’m afraid to hear yours.”

“You should be.” Then her expression turns serious. “Listen, if Aidan doesn’t want to tell you the truth, force it out of him.”

“Aidan’s not Jerry. He’s not guided by a super clean conscience and fear of going to hell.”

She sighs. “Lucky you. Jerry washed my whites and darks together and called me to confess.”

“To doing your laundry?”

“Yep.”

“I’m feeling better already.”

“Yeah, you dodged a bullet. A doctor-in-the-making bullet.”

“My loss, your gain.”

“Listen,” she says seriously. “Jerry’s a sweetheart, but I’ve dated my share of assholes. Southern men are charming. They make you feel cherished even when they’re lying to you.”

The mouthful of tea I’d just sipped suddenly tastes like acid and I have to force myself to swallow. “Aidan’s not from the south,” I protest lamely.

She gives me a look that says I’m a dumbass. “When you’re dealing with someone who knows all the right words and all the right buttons to press, you can’t beat them by playing a different game.”

“Huh?”

“So you beat them at their game. You out-charm them,” she clarifies, when I continue to stare blankly. “You laugh at their jokes and you buy what they’re selling, then you get in close and gut them.”

I choke on my tea. “Missy!”

“Not literally,” she adds, glancing around for eavesdroppers. “Unless you can get away with it.” Her exaggerated wink makes me think of my prison bunkmate, Loretta. She’d tried unsuccessfully to poison her husband for eating all her favorite cereal and taking the toy, even though she’d called dibs. Now that I think about it, she was from the south.

“What’s the not-literal version of gutting someone?” I ask, knowing I shouldn’t. Knowing this advice is bad, but not having any better ideas. Picturing Loretta in her bunk, recounting the details of her trial as she filed her nails.

“In this day and age?” Missy says, sipping her latte and looking deceptively sweet and delicate in a matching pink sweater set. “You check their phone.”