Page 71 of Empty Net
The word is too small for the hour. It works anyway.
He steps back. I step inside.
The apartment is the same. Shoes lined up by the door. Clementines in the bowl. A book on the counter, facedown, which bothers me because books should not be punished for being paused. The hallway wall has been cleaned. The mark from my shoulder is gone.
I notice. Caleb notices me noticing.
"It was paint transfer," he says.
"From me?"
"From the wall, technically."
"You cleaned it."
"I did."
"Why?"
He takes off his glasses. Cleans them on his shirt. Three seconds. "Because I wasn't sure whether leaving it was romantic or alarming."
That should not make me smile.
It does.
His face changes when he sees it. Not much. Enough.
"I told Dana," I say.
"I know."
"I said your name."
His hand stills on the glasses.
There are several ways he could respond. Soft. Careful. Warm. He chooses none of them at first. He puts the glasses on the counter. Then he looks at me fully.
"Thank you," he says.
Not because I owed him. Because I gave him something. The distinction matters. Caleb is good at distinctions.
"She told me to tell you."
"I like her."
"You don't know her."
"I like her instructions."
I huff once. Almost a laugh. The apartment catches it and holds it.
The space between us changes.
Not suddenly. Not like the first kiss. More like ice settling after the Zamboni passes, wet shine turning solid. I know what I came here for, and it is not only sex. That is the frightening part. Sex is there, already moving under my skin, but it is not running ahead this time. I am here. The rest of me has arrived with the body.
"Caleb," I say.
His eyes close for half a second.
