“Nothing.”
She glances down again, back at me before I can say anything.
“Bullshit.” We’re speaking low enough that the people around us probably can’t hear, but we’re getting looks anyway: the couple having a weird, awkward, intense conversation over morning coffee.
“Not here,” she says, and looks away, out the window again. “It’s getting late. We should head back. Go shower.”
“Kat.”
“Silas.” Echoes of how she said it last night. I shiver, all sweat and air conditioning and memory.
I want to push her into the truth, for her to tell me what’s got her like this. Whether it’s something I did or something she wishes she hadn’t. Whether last night was really so fucking terrible that now she’d rather stare at the river and her ex than look at me, or what.
When we finally collapsed into the bed and she let me tuck her into my side, I didn’t think it was terrible. When I woke up this morning before sunrise with her hair in my mouth and her leg splayed across my knee, I didn’t think it was so terrible. Maybe she did.
“Come back to the room with me,” I say, meaning can we please talk there but she shakes her head. Doesn’t even bother with words and I can’t help but think: even after that, this is what she’s like.
“All right,” I say, and I try to sound lighthearted and care-fucking-free, but it doesn’t come out that way. It comes out angry and sarcastic, and good riddance.