by Mary Frame
Tuesday the week of Thanksgiving is freezing cold. It’s windy and awful and by the time I’m walking up the steps of the duplex, my ears hurt and I can’t feel my nose, despite the large jacket, scarf and hat I threw on when I was leaving.
Jensen steps out of his door just as I’m opening mine. It feels like forever since I’ve seen him, and he hasn’t said one word to me since he saw me with Tony, so instead of entering my much warmer house, I can’t help but stop.
“Hi,” I say.
“Hey.” He locks his door before turning around.
“How are you?” I ask.
“Great.” He doesn’t sound great. He sounds anxious to get away from me.
“Are you going anywhere for Thanksgiving?” I should just shut up and go inside—I am probably entering the second stage of hypothermia after all—but Jensen has become a sick addiction, and I just need one more fix.
“Yeah, I’m taking the red-eye to my grandparents’ place in L.A. tonight.”
“I bet it’s warmer there.” Probably the most unintelligent statement I’ve ever uttered in my life. “That’ll be nice,” I add. Nope, that one clinched it.
“Well. I’ll see you later,” he says before bolting down the stairs.
I’m sure he’s in a hurry to get out of the cold. At least, that’s what I would like to believe if I wasn’t logical enough to consider the truth. The truth is, he doesn’t hate me. He probably just feels neutral towards me. Indifference. After a small consideration I realize that’s probably worse than hate. Hate at least implies some sort of passion.
This is not rational. I’m going to tell him the truth. He’s the one who said he appreciates honesty above all else, especially after what he’s been through. I can at least give him that. The entire truth, about Tony and Freya and everything. Maybe then we can go back to how it was before. At the very least we can be friends again.
The wind picks up and blows harder, rattling my windows.
After the holidays. Then I’ll come clean.
***