Page 43 of The Replay

He's not paying much attention to me. He hangs the towel from his shoulders and collects his things, the picture of nonchalance.

I narrow my eyes. A long time ago, Dom told me he liked to appear as if things couldn't affect him, when he didn't like what was going on around him. It made it hard to read him back then. Or at least, that was until I got to know him really well. But even if I look for the tell— a slight raise of his right eyebrow— I can't see it right now. He's back to being hard to read.

Fine. I'll learn to live with that.

"Right," I say. "Like you being busy on that one night wouldn't be totally obvious to everyone. And didn't you say we didn't want anyone suspecting anything?"

"I'd rather they suspect we don't want to spend time together, than suspect we're so fine with each other we'll end up friends one day."

He approaches me, towel firm over his shoulder and phone in hand. Wearing only shorts, of course. I allow myself a single look at his chest. His new ink is a black and white, detailed… butterfly? Moth? I'm not sure, and I won't ask.

I take a deep breath. Chlorine fills my lungs. He gazes at me like he couldn't give a shit about any of it.

"It's not only about that one night," I explain. "My mom is going for dinner with Selena… and Selena is inviting my parents to the gala. I think she's inviting them to a game as well. The boss and I had a meeting about it earlier."

I'm wringing my hands. He wraps them with one large palm to make it stop. It only works to make my heart race.

Our eyes lock. I stop breathing.

"You're anxious," he says.

Years ago, this is the time when he would hold my hands to let me ramble, or bring me close to hold me and help me calm me down. This time, he takes away his hand and crosses his arms to keep away from me. His voice came out monotone, rather than full of tenderness like it used to.

And, yes. His tell is there. An eyebrow is arched in the exact right way. This affects him, too.

Uh oh.

"I'll manage," I chew the inside of my mouth. "It's just… my parents. You know. The thing is, what about this hockey game? The more inconspicuous we are, the better. But does that mean you're going to the game? If we didn't care about each other, we wouldn't mind spending time together. My mom will see right through everything as soon as she asks me about you, and then one of your friends might overhear, and what then?"

"I shouldn't go if the goal is for me to be detached. We tried being aloof. It didn't work. I've made many mistakes in my life, Mariana, but never twice."

It hurts to be called a mistake, but I feel the same way about him, so I can't complain. Well, not him, just what we did a couple of weeks ago. Except no, not that either. It was great. I just can't go there again.

"You're getting it wrong." I cross my arms. "The problem was that we didn't manage to be detached. We were angry."

"I'm still angry."

"That's fine. Just… bite it back, please."

"Next you're going to tell me to journal about it."

I give him a look. He purses his lips not to smile.

"Journal about it," I say, grateful he can make a joke, even if he hides some of it. "Vent about me to your psychologist. I still have the same number, so go ahead and text me why you're so upset with me. I won't see it."

"I gather you still have me blocked." He snorts. "Wow. You'll have me fuck you in a random study room, but you won't read my texts."

I press my lips into a thin line. "That was a mutual agreement."

"I never agreed for you to block me."

"You know I'm talking about— about the other day— we were both into it—"

"That's why being blocked bothers me more. How is it going to help me to text you if you won't see it?"

"Fine. I'm unblocking you right now." I take my phone and tap away. "Will you come to the game now?"

"So I can be pleasant to your mom, and to you, except via text where I can let out all my irritation? Just so your mom doesn't suspect anything about us?"