I say something else. My mouth’s still running and I have no idea what it’s saying at this point.
Then he lets go. Steps back.
“Have a good night,” he says.
“Yeah, you too” I say.
He goes to his room.
I go to the vending machine.
I stand there for a while looking at the options without seeing any of them.
I get something. I couldn’t tell you what. Something with sugar. I walk back to my room.
I lie down on the bed in Brody’s hoodie and stare at the ceiling.
I think about one hand on one arm — approximately four seconds of contact — on a loop, for two hours.
Without making progress on any front.
Well that’s not entirely true.
What I make progress on, unfortunately, is admitting that the problem is not just that he touched me.
It’s that he touched me like it mattered where his hand landed. Like he knew exactly how much pressure to use. Like he was making sure I was steady before he worried about anything else.
That’s the sort of thing a woman can lose sleep over even when she has better reasons not to.
Then my phone lights up.
I turn my head.
Notification.
The piece I wrote on him two seasons ago—the one Griffin fed me, the one I knew felt wrong, the one I ran anyway—reposted by a rival outlet.
With my full name on it.
Sitting there in the dark like a verdict.
I look at it for a long time.
His hand on my arm.
My name sitting on the article like evidence.
Both true at the same time.
That should not feel like being split clean down the middle.
It does.
I turn the phone face down.
Stare at the ceiling.
Great job, Nova.