“Wow.”
“I get nervous,” he says, blushing like the subject of an Italian painting. “But I also need time to just—transform. I don’t know. Maybe that sounds stupid.”
“It doesn’t sound stupid.” I force myself to stare down at my notebook. “I like listening to you.”
It doesn’t make sense. I’m frustrated with him because of Lennox, but he doesn’t seem evil. Most of the time, he seems compassionate. And he’s still the same person I like to look at and listen to and try not to think about too often. I want to know what he thinks about Lennox, if he really knows what’s happened, or if he’s just scared. I want to know what he thinks about everything.
I glance up. He’s staring at me. I can’t read his expression—it almost seems like he’s surprised. Like the idea of someone caring what he has to say is a shock. But I know I’m not the only one. He’s Marius, after all. People from Indie Movie Twitter talk about him all the time. And once this movie goes big, he’ll have even more fans.
“Anyway.” I clear my throat. “Sorry about all of the hardcore questions. This is probably the last time we’ll sit down together—”
“Wait, what?”
“Yeah, I mean, I’ll go to the LGBTQ event with you, but the story is officially due on the twentieth,” I say, suppressing my panic over the looming deadline. “And I fly home after that. I guess we could do more one-on-one interviews if you think I—”
“No, I— Whatever you think is best.” He’s frowning. “I— Wow. I just didn’t think today would be the last day.”
I don’t know why it matters. I’m not sure what else to say, so I just stare down at my notebook. We sit in silence for a few moments, looking at everything but each other.
“Well,” he says after a while, “you can always call me. If you need to ask more questions.”
“Yeah.”
“Do you have my number?”
I freeze. This whole time, I’ve been communicating with Ms. Jacobson, who has communicated with his publicist. Part of me thinks that calling his personal cell would be unprofessional. The other part is thrilled. It’s the second part I’m trying to push down.
“Uh, no,” I say. My throat is dry. “But I can just call my contact and maybe—”
He shakes his head. “No, I’ll just give you my number. Can I use your pen?”
I slide my notebook and the pen over just enough for him to write at the very top of the page.
“You always have this with you,” he says as he writes. It should take only three seconds to jot down a number, but it feels like he takes an hour per digit. “I’m going to press the pen down really hard so you don’t forget.”
Something in my chest freezes. It’s like a panic attack caused by hopefulness. And I can’t let myself be hopeful. Hoping for things like this only works out badly for me. It only leads to going into Maggie’s room and trying not to cry, even though I always do.
“So I won’t forget what?”
I shouldn’t get my hopes up. I know I shouldn’t. But being with him is like when we danced on the bed together: everything else in the world went silent for a little while.
“I’ve been thinking,” he says. It’s slower than usual. “I don’t know what I’m gonna do when I don’t have an excuse to talk to you anymore.”
My mouth opens, but no sound comes out.
I don’t know how it happens. Maybe I’m the first one to move. It could’ve been him. I know for sure it’s him who kisses me first because I register everything about it a few seconds too late—his chair scraping forward a little, the fact that his lips are warm and taste like chocolate. It’s almost funny, the idea of this boy with chocolate skin tasting like chocolate. But then I remember what’s happening.
I jerk away.
“No.” My voice is trembling. His face is inches from mine and I can’t even look at it. “You can’t— No. Don’t play with me.”
His lips pucker and his brow furrows. I wish he didn’t look so confused. He’s supposed to understand this. Marius has to know that pretty boys, especially skinny ones who can speak French and have nice smiles and hair and eyes, aren’t supposed to want awkward fat Black girls. It’s just how things have always been. I refuse to get my hopes up. If I do, it will be different than Tasha moving away or the boys at school laughing at me. It’ll be worse than falling off a horse. It’ll be like falling off a cliff.
“I’m not playing,” he says, lowering his voice. “I’ve wanted to do that for a long time. And I thought you…”
I’m staring at his mouth instead of his eyes. After a moment, it stops moving. I allow myself a quick glance up. I’m looking at his face, how open it is, like he’s laid all this in front of me and is waiting to hear what I’m going to say. Technically, I’m not the vulnerable one here. He is.
“I like you,” I say. My voice is scratchy. “I really like you. So I can’t do this if you’re just going to fuck around. I can’t. I won’t.”
He nods once. I reach a hand out, tracing my thumb along his chin. It feels like touching a door handle after zipping around a rug in socks. Electric. I’ve always made fun of people for saying shit like that. But I can’t believe I’m touching him. He’s putting his face in my hands for me to touch and isn’t pulling away. I can take, if I want, because he’s giving.
The thing about thoughts
