Page 23 of ClickBack

“Nobody.”

The word is out before I think about who can hear it. Giselle takes her hand off me.

“Oh, shit,” Von says. “You got company.”

“I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“You coming Monday?”

“I’ll see.”

“That means yes.”

“It means I’ll see. Go to bed.”

“All right. Tell nobody I said my bad.”

I end the call. Giselle is already sitting on the side of the bed, sheet wrapped around her. I say her name, and she looks back at me with none of the warmth I’ve been getting all night.

“I need my clothes.”

I follow her into the living room after pulling on my boxer briefs. She puts her glasses on first. That gets to me more than if she’d started yelling. She wants to be able to see what she’s picking up. She intends to leave. An hour ago, she was laughing about the television. I can still hear exactly how she sounded, and I look at the remote on the table while she searches for her clothes. I hadn’t known how much I wanted the rest of the night until I saw her getting ready to end it.

“I was trying to get him off the subject,” I say.

“You managed it.”

“That wasn’t what I meant.”

She finds her underwear and steps into it beneath the sheet. I keep my distance while she gets it into place.

“Jarrett, I know I’m not your girlfriend. I agreed to tonight. You didn’t have to make me feel stupid for being here.”

I start to answer and stop. I want to tell her she hasn’t done anything stupid. I want to hear her laugh again, to get us back to where we were before I picked up the phone. But she is standing in my living room wearing a sheet, telling a man she barely knows that he hurt her. I put her in that position. The fact that I didn’t intend to doesn’t give her a better way to feel about it.

“I should have said your name.”

She reaches for her tank.

“Or told him I had company and it wasn’t his business. I’m sorry.”

She pulls the top over her head. I wait until she can see me again.

“I want you to stay.”

“Because you feel bad?”

“I do feel bad. I still want you here.”

Giselle looks toward her bag. I leave it where she can reach it. She has her car downstairs, and I’m not standing between her and the door while I ask her to believe I’m a better man than the one she heard on the phone.

“You didn’t even think about it,” she says.

“No. I didn’t.”

She holds my attention. I want some sign that she believes me, and then I’m ashamed of how quickly I’ve made this about getting out from under what I did. She can believe I’m sorry and still go. I have to stand here without knowing which she’ll choose.

At last she puts down the blouse.