“Right,” I say. “Great. Thank you.”
“Can I put them down somewhere?”
I nod and walk back into my office, then gesture at my desk. Silas sets the flowers on a corner, then brushes his hands together and looks around.
It’s just an office, and it’s all very… well, office-y. My desk is mostly clear except for a notepad, a keyboard, my monitor, and some headphones. I’ve got a pretty nice chair. On one wall is a bulletin board, and on the other, a huge geological map of southwestern Virginia.
And, of course, a few feet away and facing my desk is Evan’s. That’s a new addition as of eleven this morning.
I lean against my desk, staring at the roses, trying to put the dark, sticky anxious feeling in my chest into words. I wish I could erase Saturday and all the parts of me I wish he hadn’t seen.
“Look,” I start, and fold my arms over my chest. “Thanks, but I’m not fragile or something. I don’t need to be coddled, or romanced, or treated like I’m made of glass. I don’t need to be taken care of, I’m fine.”
Silas gives me a strange, almost wary look.
“Everyone needs to be taken care of,” he says.
“But not me by you.”
“It’s flowers to make your ex jealous,” he says, crossing his arms and mimicking my stance. “Which is what you said you wanted.”
“I didn’t mean for you to give me things.”
“You do realize that couples often give one another tokens of affection, right?”
“We’re not—”
All at once, I realize what my problem is, and I stop mid-sentence.
“No, finish, I can’t wait,” Silas says. “I thought we’d already discussed this, but by all means continue.”
“The last time you gave me something it ended with both of us, our advisors, and Professor Nelson in the Dean’s office,” I say. “When you were about to fail Geology, so you showed up wasted at my office hours with a six pack of Natty Light and told me it was all mine in exchange for a C minus.”
Silas props himself against the desk opposite mine. He sighs. And then he looks away, toward the window and the lowering sun, and actually looks… contrite?
“And then drank two before our meeting was even over,” I add.
“Would you have passed me for all six?”
“No,” I hiss, because even though I know that question doesn’t deserve an answer, I can’t help but give him one.
“The flowers aren’t a bribe,” he says. “They’re just flowers, given freely in a spirit of vengeful fake romance.”
The stretching, clutching feeling in my chest has loosened a little, and I shake my head, looking at the roses and wishing they made me feel some other way.
“Right,” I manage to say. “The best kind of fake romance.”
Silas doesn’t laugh at my joke. He doesn’t even smile, but something in his face does lighten a little. Maybe.
“Now are you rethinking our breakup?” I ask, and that gets a smile.
“Less rethinking and more counting down the weeks,” he says, unfolding his arms. “How much longer do we—”
When he grips the edge of the desk, his elbow knocks over a picture frame on Evan’s desk, and he reaches around himself to right it.
Instead, he stares at the picture for a moment. It’s weirdly big for a desk photo, probably five by seven, and both Silas’s eyebrows go up before he looks at me.
“That’s Meckler,” he says. “Is this Meckler’s desk?”