Page 19 of Blitz

“Right.”

“Nothing to do with you.”

“I didn’t think it did.”

“You should go.”

I flinch. I was the one who suggested it, but for him to basically kick me out...

“Thanks for letting me crash here.”

He grunts. He doesn’t offer to help me out again. He doesn’t say that’s what friends are for or any other trite clichés. He doesn’t make any promises he has no intention of keeping.

I clear my throat. “Um. My coat?”

“I didn’t see it.” He looks away. “You wore mine home.”

I vaguely remember being wrapped up in his scent, enveloped in his embrace. I should have known he never would have hugged me.

“You can borrow a sweatshirt or something,” he says, scrubbing a hand over the back of his neck. He goes to the dresser, digging through a pile of dark hoodies. They’re all emblazoned with Newton Football or Newton Athletics. “Here.”

He shoves it at me, and I swallow. Our fingers brush against each other. Sparks fly. It’s not just static electricity in the air. It’s something more.

I don’t want him to move on. I don’t want him to date anyone else. I want him all to myself, every last piece of his heart.

“Thanks.”

“I want it back.”

Of course he does. “I’m not a thief.”

“You used to be.” There’s no humor in his voice, only regret. Pain.

When we were together, it was like a badge of honor to wear his hoodies. I walked through the halls of our high school with my head held high. He’d picked me. He’d wanted me.

Now, he can hardly look at me.

His hoodie is enormous. I look like I’m wearing a tent. I slip my hands into the pocket to keep from fidgeting. It’s warm, and it smells like him, like cedar and sandalwood and something else uniquely him. I’m wrapped up in him. At least this way I can keep a part of him with me.

Yeah, he’s definitely not getting this sweatshirt back.

“I’ll see you around, King.”

He flinches. “No, you won’t.”

“We have a class together. We work together. I’m pretty sure you don’t have the power to go invisible.”

My attempt at a joke falls flat. His face is carved from stone.

“You should leave,” he finally says. “I don’t want you here.”

Damn, and doesn’t that sting. He had to come right out and say it. I clear my throat to hide the tears welling in my eyes and gather my stuff. My shoes, my phone, my clutch. I’ll have to go back to the frat house later for my coat. I liked that coat.

“Bye.”

He grunts again. He doesn’t slam the door behind me, but he isn’t gentle, either.

The walk home is lonely. It’s bitterly cold out. There’s nobody out this early in the morning. Athlete’s Village is quiet, still. I walk the four blocks over to the track and field house. All this time, we’ve lived so close together. Now it feels like there’s a gulf between us.