“It's pepper spray. With a rape whistle,” James explained. As soon as he said it I realized I had seen girls on campus carrying similar defense items on their backpacks.
“What a thoughtful gift,” Nancy said, looking over my shoulder. “That's very protective of you, James.”
I met James' gaze and heat skittered south. It was obvious to that he was referencing the other night. He didn't want anything to happen to me. I didn't know what to say, but my lone gift for him suddenly felt lacking. I wish I had something more to give him. Something that would last forever.
“Open mine next,” Dad said, cutting through my thoughts. I turned to receive the shiny wrapped present he had ready for me. James stood and walked to the kitchen, typing away on his phone for something business related.
As I opened the rest of my presents and handed out the other gifts I had bought for Nancy and Dad, I made sure to keep the little can of pepper spray close by.
James avoided me the rest of the day. And then, he left.
I came downstairs after a nap—the day was dark and it was snowing pretty heavily—and Nancy told me he was gone. Apparently he had business things to take care of. "He wouldn’t
even let me drive him to the airport," she complained.
So, he didn’t even bother to say goodbye.
Good. It was better that way.
We could avoid each other until next year and by then everything would have been forgotten. Right?
I spent the rest of the day vegging and trying not to think about James. But, of course, I did just the opposite. I went over everything that happened again and again, combing through the details, trying to enhance and remember those that were blurred with emotion. Trying to make sense of him, to imagine what he might be feeling.
Yeah, right. I couldn’t even figure out what I was feeling!
Was he running away because he was ashamed, like me? Because he felt something he was afraid of feeling? Or did he really not care at all? Was I just projecting my own feelings on to him? And if I was, what did that mean about how I felt?
I wanted to scream, to run away from my thoughts, but wherever I went they followed.
I waited another day for the weather to clear and decided it was time for me to go. Maybe the air in New York would cleanse me. But before I left, I drove by Tessa’s for a final dose of girl talk and a big hug.
I picked her up and drove us to the coffee shop on Main Street, debating whether or not it would be a good idea to tell her everything that happened as I drove. She knew about Dennis—I’m sure everyone knew about Dennis by now—but she didn’t know about what happened on the side of the road on the way back home.
The wheels crunched to a halt on the hard-packed snow as I pulled into a parking spot.
“All right,” Tessa said. “What is going on with you?”
“What do you mean?”
We got out of the car and walked to the coffee shop. “Please, girl. I could hear that look on your face over the phone. What happened?”
I glanced at her in shock. “James.”
“Oh shit!” she shouted, just as we walked inside. That drew a few stares and a few shaking heads from a table of older ladies. “I was just fishing!” she said under her breath. “Spill. Now.”
“After I get something hot to drink,” I promised.
We ordered and I picked the table furthest in the back and farthest from any eavesdroppers. Then I told her, with all the detail I could, what had happened.
There was a pause after I finished. It unnerved me a little bit. “What? Why are you so serious? You’re freaking me out,” I said, sipping at my mocha.
“Okay, look,” she said, leaning in, much too solemn for my liking. Tessa was never serious. Like, ever. “You have two options here. Option one, forget it happened, go on with your life, and in a few years neither of you will care or remember some drunk kiss the day before Christmas eve. Probably.”
“And option two?”
“Do you need an option two? I really just recommend option one. Really recommend it.”
“I’d like to hear it,” I said, evasively.