Chapter Nine
Three years later
“SO, THE PRISONER’S dilemma.”
“The prisoner’s dilemma is a theory that shows why two rational individuals—two prisoners—might not cooperate, even if it would be in their best interests.” I answered the question dutifully, my mind only half on the walking pop quiz. The other half was focused on the little alcove of mailboxes beside the elevators. My breath came faster, illicit anticipation over something as innocuous as a postcard.
Sloan was my classmate, a junior with an eternal golden tan even in the heart of Chicago. “And Axelrod’s four conditions for the strategy to work?”
“The strategy must retaliate, be forgiving, nonenvious, and…” I would have to reread the chapter in our sociology textbook tonight, but I couldn’t pass up the mailboxes now. “I’m sorry. Mind if I stop here? I’m expecting a letter.”
It wouldn’t have been a letter, exactly. It would have been a postcard, the next in an unsteady stream of anonymous cards. I had been surprised the first time I got the blank postcard, then confused and scared and ultimately charmed. There was only one man who could have sent them, who would have sent them, these smug and mysterious links to a man I shouldn’t know.
Sloan blinked. “Oh. Sure.”
I hadn’t waited for his response. My key was already inside the lock.
The little metal door swung open. I rifled through credit card offers and pizza delivery coupons, heart racing, palms sweaty. And nothing else.
It wasn’t here.
Disappointment was a punch to the gut. I struggled to control my expression.
“No letter?” Sloan asked. His voice asked, From who?
“No letter,” I repeated dully.
It hadn’t come for months now.
Well, what did I expect? For him to pine forever? It was a miracle he’d remembered me at all. I had met Philip in a blur of crime and bad decisions. He’d been handsome and powerful. And there’d been something between us, something dark and curious.
But he hadn’t touched me in the end. He’d let me go.
Sloan cleared his throat, expression half expectant, half hopeful. Oh no. “Ella, would you…would you like to go on a date?”
My heart sank. I’d been too young for Philip. Too good for him, or so he’d claimed. The good girl. The worst part was, I couldn’t even argue. All I’d done since then was go to class like an obedient daughter, ignoring that my adoptive father’s gambling debts had gotten me in trouble in the first place.
Sloan was perfect for me, in every way. Except he didn’t make me ache.
When I touched myself at night, it wasn’t his boyish face that I pictured. It wasn’t his lean body I pictured between my legs. I had never been with a man, not all the way, and the only man I could imagine myself with wasn’t interested.
“Sloan—”
“I think we get along,” he filled in quickly. “And I really like you. I know you don’t like me like that, at least not yet, but maybe in time that would change.”
The last word lilted up, like a question. My mouth snapped shut. I felt bad for the answer I’d have to give. I also felt impressed that he knew my answer—and that he’d asked anyway.
Sloan was a good guy. Cute in that lanky, all-American way I should be attracted to.
I just wished he inspired half the heat that a single blank postcard could.
I glanced at the stack of junk mail in my hands. There wasn’t a postcard. Hadn’t been one for months. They had always been erratic, but now it was time to face facts.
Another one wasn’t coming.
And even if it did, that wasn’t a relationship.
“Yes,” I whispered, because this was what I should do. I should go to school and get a regular job. I should date a nice boy and marry him. That would give me the family I longed for, the connection I still desperately wanted.
“I think we’d have a good time, and I wouldn’t expect—Oh.” Sloan looked surprised. Then sheepish.
Guilt gnawed me inside, that I’d made him beg. That I instantly regretted saying yes.
Why couldn’t I want him?
He rallied quickly. “Tomorrow night?”
That was fast. But maybe for the best, like ripping off a Band-Aid. I just didn’t want to think about what wound the Band-Aid had been protecting, the wound I’d just exposed. “Tomorrow night.”
We rode the elevator to my floor, and I waved goodbye without looking back. Tomorrow night I’d deal with what I’d agreed to. I’d deal with having a bad time—or having a good time. I wasn’t sure which one I dreaded most.
For now I headed to my dorm room while he continued in the elevator up to his. I crossed the long hallway over dark carpet, questionable stains barely visible under the dim, flickering light.
Inside my room I leaned back against the door, shutting my eyes.
What was I thinking saying yes?
But I already knew the answer. I was lonely. Had always been lonely, if I was being honest. I pulled my sociology textbook from my backpack and started studying, reading about all the ways people connected with each other, my nose pressed to the glass of human experience.