Page 73 of Tenure

“Doesn’t matter. I’m telling you I’m not doing it again.”

“So, youaresick of me.” I cross my arms and pout.

He sighs, rolling his eyes and staring upwards at the sky like he’s begging the lord for understanding, or patience, or something.

“I’m saying just move in.”

My tongue feels like it’s been dipped in cement.

We drive back to his apartment in silence, uncomfortable on my part and amused on his. I want to punch him in the dick, a little, for putting me on the spot like this.

I want to say yes. My immediate, no hesitation reaction was to say yes. But I’m not supposed to move in with my first—brand new—boyfriend (?) when I’m still in high school. Right?

He taps his bandaged fingers on the railing in the elevator as we head up to his apartment, and my tongue still feels like stone.

Come on, James. Break the silence first.

He opens the fridge and pulls out a bottle of white. Without thinking, I grab two wine glasses and hand him the corkscrew. I’ve spent more time in his apartment the past week than I have anywhere else . . . He has a strange expression on his face, something warm and sweet. He’s clearly enjoying that I know my way around his place. That it feels like a routine. That it feels like something we’ve always done.

“It’s too soon,” I say, sipping the wine nervously.

“Why.”

“Because it’s only been a few weeks?”

He shrugs, like it’s totally normal to ask someone you’ve just met to move into your house with you.

“I’m too young?”

He snorts and raises his glass, taking a large gulp of his wine. “There’s no getting around it, babygirl. That ship has sailed.”

“You’re too old?”

He narrows his eyes, and my thighs clench involuntarily. I swallow and hope he doesn’t notice, but his gaze drifts to my throat, and I see his fingers flex.

He takes a step towards me, and I take a step back.

“Kiernan,” he says, his voice low, as he puts down his glass and starts to unbutton his shirt. “Do you have anylegitimatereasons for not moving in?”

The sight of his bare torso is distracting.

“We just shouldn’t?”

“Not a real reason,” he says, dropping his shirt on the floor.

“You will get in trouble at work?”

He waves his hand dismissively, like it’s already been taken care of, and reaches for his belt. I take another step back.

“You haven’t even met my parents?”

He pauses, his belt open, and cocks his head to the side like he’s considering it. “We can go see them in Paris on reading week,” he says, before sliding his belt out of the loops.

I can’t stop staring at the buckle, my heart ratcheting up to something akin toterror,as my back hits the painting I picked out from that shop. He’d hung it that day. Left the old one in the lobby with a sign that saidfree.

“Kiernan?”

I whimper.

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