Page 107 of Collision
“I don’t know about…”
“I’m saying this for your own good,” she cuts me off.
I lower my eyes mutely. “Okay…” I murmur in surrender.
Leila looks hastily at her wristwatch. “I have to go now, but I’d like to see you again. Under better circumstances, if possible.” She smiles sweetly at me.
“Of course, I’d like that.”
Thomas doesn’t show up for art history class. I spend most of my time staring at his empty chair and reflecting on the fact that this the first class I’ve had without him. Even when we weren’t talking to each other and he was sitting in the back, I still knew that he was just a few feet away from me and that knowledge was enough for me. I hope he’s not getting into trouble. He was pretty angry earlier, and Leila’s words were not at all reassuring.
When I leave the classroom, the only thought in my head is that I have to find him. I have to give him back his car keys but more importantly, I want to make sure that he is okay.
“Hey, where are you going in such a hurry?” Tiff asks, as she and Alex try to halt me at the exit.
“I need to see someone, sorry,” I answer hastily, not even stopping.
Arriving in front of his dorm room, I suddenly feel nervous. I take a deep breath and try to shake off the feeling. I knock but no one answers. I knock again. I press my ear to the door and hear noises inside, then his voice cursing.
I bang more energetically on the door. “Thomas, it’s me, Vanessa,” I call. After a few seconds, the door opens. I can tell by his drawn features that he’s in no mood for visitors. If I were smart, I’d probably get out of here quickly. He stands at the door, silent,his jaw clenched.
“Will you let me in?” I know it’s a gamble. Although clearly reluctant, he moves out of my way and closes the door behind me. The room is silent. The leaden sky outside the windows gives it a gloomy air. There are a few empty beer bottles scattered on the carpet, and I’m pretty sure that smell I’m getting is weed. I look around, staring at Larry’s door.
“Are you alone?”
He nods and walks further into the room, leaving me behind. “I’m gonna tell you this before you get going: don’t stress me out with a bunch of bullshit questions,” he blurts out, not even looking me in the face.
“I wasn’t going to,” I lie, swallowing a mouthful of saliva.
“So what were you going to do?” he asks with arrogant disregard.
I take his keys out of my bag and throw them at him. He catches them on the fly, puts them on the table, and sits down on the couch. “Anything else?” He slumps against the sofa back, shakes out a messy lock of hair and lights a cigarette. On closer inspection, it’s not just a cigarette.
“What is that? A joint?” I ask, irritated. I set my bag down on a chair.
“That’s what they call it.” He lifts it toward me. “Want a hit?”
I raise my eyebrows. “It’s ten thirty in the morning. Doesn’t that seem a bit early?”
I walk into the kitchen and lean against the counter, my arms crossed over my chest.
Thomas, holding the joint between his thumb and forefinger, takes a drag and then watches the cloud of smoke dissolve. “Never too early for weed.”
We look into each other’s eyes for a few interminable moments, during which I struggle to suppress the urge to ask him what is wrong. Finally, the intensity of his gaze forces me to avert my own.
Uncomfortable, I let my eyes wander over the rest of the room and I linger on the door to his room. Just a few hours ago I was sitting on his lap, he was touching me longingly…kissing my warm skin… Suddenly I feel short of breath. I turn around and fill a glass with water. I drinkit all in one gulp.
He was drunk, Vanessa. Nothing he said or did was dictated by his rational mind, but instead by sheer desperation. I, on the contrary, was fully conscious of what I was doing, every fiber of my body was. And every fiber of my body wanted it like crazy.
“Isn’t that skirt a little short?” he asks impassively.
I almost choke.
I swallow hard. “Seems perfect to me,” I manage, trying to sound self-confident.
“On your ass, it sure is.” I keep my back to him so he won’t see my burning face. “Did you do it for him?”
“What?” I ask when I decide to finally look at him.
