The Culture of Hooking Up

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

The room is still dark like the night sky. Almost as dark as the black scene when I close my eyes, but I don't let myself. I just keep blinking and blinking because I can't let myself fall asleep, not after breaking my two-week streak.

     Two weeks without the smell of the cinnamon air fresheners Jack keeps plugged into his apartment walls. Two weeks without the feeling of his white fluffy rug between my toes. Two weeks without giggles, stubborn belt loops, and tiny shirt buttons. Two weeks without the push and pull of skin on skin, and the warmth that lingers on the outside and within.

     It feels like the weight of Jack's arm increases as I contemplate getting up. The shadow of his body beside me also looms larger.

     I wonder what would happen if I just rolled over, buried my head in his chest, and kept the warmth of the sunrise between us. Jack would try and wake me up when light finally covered the entire room, and I'd moan, groan, and protest before reluctantly, but really not so reluctantly, let him drag me out of bed with the promise of diner pancakes and chocolate milk.

     Maybe Jack wouldn't even drag me. He'd just quietly tiptoe out of the room and let me sleep a little more only to wake me up with the smell of a freshly brewed cup of coffee.

     Or maybe we'd both ignore the sun and just lounge around in bed, lazily turn our heads, and talk about whatever random thought popped into our heads. I'll even be tempted to lift my fingers and push up and straighten those dark eyebrows of his that always seem to go haywire with all the furrowing and lifts. And then I'd push all of his hair over to one side, in the direction of his pillow, knowing that, when he eventually gets up, he'll push it all back over to the opposite side, and some pieces will fall and curl over his forehead.

     Maybe we'd both stand by the stove in the kitchen making pancakes. Jack will go back and forth between flipping pancakes and poking my sides. I could even try to make my mom's famous breakfast potatoes and shoo him away every time he comes over and tries to tickle me because "the onions are going to burn."

     Or maybe we'll wake up to find that he only has ramen noodles in his cabinets and his favorite English Earl Grey tea bags. We'd eat warm noodles at ten in the morning, sitting around his small, round wooden table. He'd talk about the first time he rode a bike, while I'd tell him how I had my first grow spurt at fourteen, and no one ever let me forget it.

     Or maybe they'll be just a half-eaten box of cereal in his cabinet. We'll take turns tossing pieces into each other's mouths and playing twenty questions in between fits of laughter every time we miss because we do miss almost ninety-nine percent of the time.

     It'd be easy—so easy—too easy—to just close my eyes and stay.

     Instead, I slowly lift my right arm up and gently wrap my pointer finger and thumb around Jack's forearm. I lift it the slightest bit up, just enough for me to start inching my stomach and legs diagonally to the edge of the bed. I place his arm back down onto his comforter before scooting myself the rest of the way to the edge. The mattress whines in protest when I stand up. I wait for the sound to dissipate back into the silence before bending down and slipping on my lacey black underwear. I turn my head to the left only to find that my matching black bra, in the midst of it all, landed right on top of the fat lamp sitting on the wooden nightstand. The lamp shade jiggles like a bobble head when I quickly tear it off. I clutch it to my chest as I hold my breath, trying to tune back into the inhales of the other pair of lungs still laying in the bed behind me.

     I finally go back to moving and blinking, moving and then stopping to blink and blink, making sure that piece of clothing is mine. I almost laugh when I find the flamingo patterned shirt.

     I reach under the bed and feel around until my fingertips connect with the scratchy chiffon material of my tank top. But just as I stand back up and go to throw it on over my head, the light turns on. My arms, halfway through the armholes, fall back down in front of me as my eyes blink and blink, adjusting to the blinding white light in front of me, blink and blink, adjusting to the fact that Jack's standing by the switch beside the doorway.

     His dark hair is tousled every which way on his head, and he's only sporting a grey pair of sweatpants on his hips. His eyes are blinking and blinking as well but they are trained solely on me.

     "Why?" is the only word to leave his lips. It also happens to be a question I thought I knew the answer to.

     "I—" I start, but the words seem to get caught in my throat because usually it's not even a question. It's usually not even a choice. It just is. It's just what you do. "It's just," I start again before finally flinging my shirt over my head. "It's not always easy, okay?" I yank my tank top down in attempt to adjust it, but it's almost like the action yanks Jack's head back up.

     "Easy?" He stuffs a hand into his hair. "That's rich."

     My eyebrows furrow. "What else do you want me to say?"

     He averts his eyes as he shakes his head at the floor.

     "Jack—"

     He looks up.

     I imagine what it would be like if he decided to take deliberate steps forward, faster than I've ever seen, too fast, making my knees grow weak. I'd try to step back only to find that the backs of my knees hit the bed, and he'd just close on in, leaning into me, until I'm forced to grip onto his shoulders just so I don't fall back onto all his blankets. His fingers would squish into my cheeks just before his lips would fall on mine, and he'd kiss me like he needed me. As if I'm air and he couldn't breathe.

     It'd be easy—so easy—too easy.

     But instead, the kids that stumbled around in the dark last night are gone. We just continue to stand there, blinking and blinking in the sobriety trapped within his white bedroom walls.

     "Laney, I just . . ." Jack sighs, the kind of sigh that drains all the emotions out of you and reminds you of the fact that you were sleeping only moments ago. He scrubs a hand down his face. "I just don't get it."

     Of course, he doesn't because he's the exception. He always the exception.

     "Don't get what?" I laugh, but it's not an actual laugh, rather, it just suddenly feels funny to still be standing here. "Why are you making such a big deal out of this?"

     "Because!" Jack flings his arm out. "Because it is easy. Either you want to be with me, or you don't."

     My lips part. "But—"

     Jack's eyebrows go up, scrunching up his forehead into four little lines, which means I already ruined it before it began, and so I clamp my lips shut again. Jack keeps the animated expression for another second before drooping his face back down along with his shoulders. He turns on his heel and starts walking away.

     "I don't know, okay?"

     He stops but still doesn't turn back around.

     "I just—" I inch the slightest bit forward, wanting so badly to run over and wrap my arms around him, but I don't. I keep them wrapped around my own abdomen as my eyes fall down to my navy blue painted toes. I dig them into the carpet. "I don't know."

     He keeps his eyes trained on the floor as he passes the quickest glance back. "Well, I don't know if I can do this anymore."

     My toes dig into the ground some more, and he's gone by the time I look back up. I flinch when the bathroom door slams closed. It takes another minute for that slam to echo inside my head again before I finally pick up the rest of my things and slam the door to his apartment, not out of anger, but so he knows I'm gone.