Page 32 of Empty Net
He lies beside me, one arm bent above his head, chest moving under the low light from the hall. His glasses are still in the kitchen. Without them, his face looks younger and more exposed. I should not look. I do, for one second.
His eyes are closed.
Good.
I get up.
His eyes open.
Not good.
He does not ask me to stay. This is a cruelty and a kindness. If he asked, I would say no. If I said no, the no would become a thing in the room with us. He does not make me put it there.
"Nolan," he says.
My shirt is inside out. I fix it. My fingers do not work well.
"I have morning skate."
"I know."
The sentence is gentle. He knows my schedule. He knows I am using it. He lets me.
I pull on my jeans. Socks. Shoes by the bedroom door. I do not know when they came off. The body took over. The body is very good at taking over. The body is less useful now that the room has feelings in it.
At the apartment door, I stop.
I should say something.
Thank you is wrong. Night is not enough. I do not have a word for I wanted this and I am terrified of the wanting and you were careful and the carefulness made it worse because it made me feel known.
Caleb stands in the hallway behind me, shirt unbuttoned, hair wrecked, face open in a way I cannot look at directly.
"Drive safe," he says.
I nod.
I leave.
The hallway is quiet. The elevator takes too long. My body is still warm. My mouth tastes like him. My hip aches. My hands shake once when I press the parking garage button, and I make a fist until they stop.
In the truck, I sit with both hands on the wheel and do not start the engine.
The silence is louder than it has ever been.
I just had sex with a man I am falling for and I could not look at his face.
The sentence is ugly. Accurate. Unfileable.
I know how to do this. Cities where nobody knew my name. Men whose names I did not keep. Doors that closed behind me before morning. Leaving is muscle memory. Leaving is the old survival pattern, the one my body learned before Atlanta, before Cole and Mik and Jamie and the safest locker room in hockey,before Caleb Wren stood in a hallway and told me the difference between fine and compensating.
The closet does not lock anymore.
My hand still reaches for the door.
I start the truck. I drive home.
The apartment is dark. One light. Kitchen. Counter.
