After He Said That (Book Part 32)

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I didn’t realize how much I’d dropped the mask until it slipped completely. That’s the thing about pretending—you don’t always know you’re doing it until you stop. And at this moment, with Kent, I wasn’t pretending. Not even a little.

The dome light is on, allowing details of Kent’s face—ones I hadn’t noticed before—to surface. The blond hairs of three-day stubble. The pulse of his jawline as he shifts in his seat, adjusting the heat and the windshield wipers. His gaze meets mine. We talk over each other, laughing about how crazy that was. I feel close to him—an intimacy, even.

As Kent picks a piece of mud from his tennis shoe, I listen to the soft pinging of raindrops. He looks up at me.

“Hey, what do you think about coming hiking with me tomorrow morning? I want to check out Notch Trail. The landscape is different, and something I definitely want to see.”

I don’t know why, but my cheeks warm. There’s a light flutter in my belly. “Yes, that sounds awesome,” I say, smiling, already tucking myself into the happy thought of the two of us on that trail.

Kent breaks my reverie. “This has… yeah, it’s been such an awesome night.”

I nod. There’s a part of me that wonders if he’s about to ask me to sleep in his tent. I’d say yes.

“Really,” he says. “Too much for words.”

“I agree,” I say, feeling a shared electricity between us that the silence intensifies.

Then he continues. “And, although—ya know—it’s too bad my girlfriend couldn’t come and all… you’ve made a wonderful substitute.”

In an instant, I’m a poked snail, retreating into myself. I feel everything alive in me go dormant.

There are more words—about the hike, about the time—but I don’t hear them. I’m already out in the open, hurrying to the trunk of my car, searching for shelter.

Later, beneath the nylon fabric of my sleeping bag, the thoughts begin to flood in.

What were you thinking? How’d you read that so wrong. You’re so stupid.

However alone I felt before meeting Kent, I feel even more alone now. The thoughts pound as relentlessly as the rain on the car’s hood. Eventually, long past when I wanted to, I fell asleep.

When I wake, the sun is barely up, but my mind is foggy—unsurprising, given the psychological roller coaster of the night before. I shimmy to the front seat, open the door, and see Kent across the lot, packing his tent and sleeping bag into his car.

I want to feign sickness. I want to tell him that he should go ahead without me. But when he sees me and says, “Morning, I’m just about to head out. You coming?” I force a smile and say, “Yes, of course.”

And just like that, I shrug the feelings away and slip the mask back on.