Page 35 of The Keeper
“Please know, I didn’t come here for that. I wasn’t expecting anything.”
I turn my head away and roll onto my stomach before elevating into a kneeling position, my butt resting on my heels. I give a slight nod, giving myself some time to collect my thoughts.
“I know, I just…” I pause, unsure what to say. “I don’t really get… physical… with guys. And that was just…” a breath of air leaves me, “… really fast.”
When I look at him, I can see the surprise written on his face.
“Are you…?”
But he doesn’t finish the question when my eyes dart away in embarrassment, heat creeping up my neck into my face. And what the hell? Why am I embarrassed about my decision to wait until it’s right?
I lock eyes with him again, choosing to be unashamed. “Yes. But ultimately, that’s not what we should be talking about. We should be talking about us and the fact that you’re here.” When he just continues to stare at me, I take that as an affirmation and continue. “Part of me is glad you came by, to clarify about Ronnie. To know I meant something.”
“Meant something?” he interjects, his voice slightly incredulous. “You can’t be talking in past tense, RJ. You have no idea…”
“It doesn’t change anything, Mack.” I interrupt, squeezing my eyes shut in effort to block out his pained expression. “Does it make me feel better? I guess.” I exhale a breath. “I feel less pathetic, and I’m glad to know I wasn’t one of the many girls you just bang and move on from.” He starts to interrupt again but I put up my hand in a silent request to let me finish. “I realize now that’s not the truth, but it doesn’t change the fact that we can’t continue whatever this is. So I am asking that you don’t come by my house again. I am asking that you don’t concern yourself with making me feel better about this fucked up situation. You don’t owe me anything. You don’t belong to me.”
He stares at me for a long minute, but eventually gives me a sad nod and stands. The urge to hug him and bring back the smile that I was so captivated with when we first met is overwhelming. But I remain seated on the floor, watching as he steps towards the open door.
“I’m sorry, RJ.” I barely hear the words, but they resonate deeply.
It isn’t until he’s gone, the door closed, that I let out an exhausted breath.
“Me too.”
Chapter Six
“Shit, who killed your puppy?”
I roll my eyes and ignore the jab about the lack of sleep reflected on my face. I’d stayed up well into the evening, thinking about what had happened with Mack, and couldn’t have gotten more than three hours of sleep before I had to race to get ready for our early morning conditioning followed by my 10am class. I normally love going to class, but I had my psychology test today and that is one subject I absolutely detest.
The last thing I need this afternoon is Thomas Moore, the captain of the men’s soccer team, making comments about my appearance. It is my unfortunate luck that he and I share the same sport as well as the same career goals, placing us in the same traveling buses and a significant number of the same classes. He’s kind of a dick to me. Needless to say, I do my best to avoid him whenever possible.
“I don’t have a puppy. But if I ever buy one that someone plans to kill, I’ll be sure to name it Thomas.”
He smiles, unaffected by my response, and settles onto the bench next to me, adjusting his socks over his shin guards.
“I’ve been thinking about Markson’s class,” he says, pulling out his water bottle and taking a quick swig. “You’re going to focus your paper on Edith Wharton right?”
I nod, unsure how Thomas would already know the author I’d been strongly considering for the focus of my thesis. I hadn’t shared that information on our discussion board.
“Yeah, how’d you know?”
Now finished with his shin guards, Thomas grabs a scrimmage jersey from the box next to me and pulls it on.
“You tie her into almost everything we discuss in class. I’m pretty sure you’ve brought her up in almost every small group discussion you and I have been a part of.”
My eyebrows furrow as I try to recall our recent conversations in small group. If I’d been mentioning Wharton in class on a regular basis, I was unaware that I’d been doing so, and surprised that Thomas had noticed.
“Anyway, I’ve been thinking about centering my paper on Henry James. I was thinking we could ask Markson about doing overlapping presentations in December, and incorporate some components about their relationship and impact on their writing.”
“You’re focusing on Henry James?” I asked, a small smile popping onto my face.
Thomas palms a soccer ball and drops it to his right foot, bouncing it back into his hands before repeating.
“You sound surprised.”
“I don’t know… I figured you for more of a Dickens man.”
