You're Not You by Michelle Wildgen Read Free Book Online Page A

notion, so I nodded sagely and made noises of agreement.
    “A Ph.D., though,” I said. I shook my head. “I can’t imagine being able to handle that.”
    “Why not? You ought to be thinking about something beyond undergrad.”
    “I guess so.” Both Jill and I had watched our grades slide downward since we had moved in together, regretful but uninvolved, as though their deterioration were divorced from us and our apartment with its freezer full of gin and vodka, and the games of rummy and poker we were continually offering to each other.
    He looked exasperated. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Alison tells me I do this sometimes—you don’t need me to guide you. You know what you’re doing.”
    “Oh yeah,” I agreed. “I know exactly what I’m doing.”
    We watched each other silently, and I didn’t look away. I was testing him. At the time I thought he might be amusing himself by putting out the occasional signal—the eye contact, the hug hello to the kid who was too naïve to know better—and I thought I’d call his bluff.
    The silence continued. He could have done a lot of things right then—touch my hand, brush my hair out of my face. It was that sort ofmoment. Instead he stayed still, holding my gaze so intently I had to know it was purposeful, and said, “Do you need a ride home?”
    At that point, I was almost more curious than anything, still in that bluffing mood to see how far he’d go. I didn’t really think we’d sleep together. He was married, though that condition seemed to me a lot like his peripatetic childhood, something relevant to him but also far away and not very real to me. I thought he might kiss me in the car, apologize, and leave.
    On the way to my house I wondered whether Jill would be there, hoping she was at class. Liam and I talked, but I was distracted, dredging up some reason to invite him in. I had always used a pretext, and so had everyone I knew. We were always mentioning specific, obscure books or CDs not just to impress but in the hopes of being asked into the apartment for the necessary loan or return. But that day I couldn’t think of a thing to offer. Musically the furthest afield I had gone was late-era Beatles. I couldn’t offer him unknown blues bootlegs, as I would later learn his wife had. He was earning a Ph.D. in literature, and though I sometimes read several books a week, they were the sort with a bloody handprint on the cover. I didn’t know wine or even beer, so I had nothing there. The heater in the car was a little sluggish. Maybe I could ask him if he needed to get warm.
    Or better yet, just ask him to come in. I didn’t have to explain myself. He didn’t seem to realize I had no idea what I was doing.
    “Bec?” he’d said. I realized I’d gone silent. He had turned onto my street, and I pointed at our house. The driveway was empty.
    I’d turned to look at him. I loved being in a car with a guy, the way the air could change as soon as you were alone. That closeness, his hand on the gearshift an inch from my knee. He had long fingers that bulged at the knuckles. I was holding my backpack in my lap. On either side of us, the driveway was piled so high with shoveled snow that it felt as though no one could see us. I was gearing myself up to say something about coming in, for a hot drink or whatever inane suggestion I could think of, when I met his eyes. He gave me a slight smile and said, “Take that backpack off your lap.”
    I just looked at him in surprise for a moment, and he answered meby picking it up by one strap and laying it at my feet as he reached toward me with the other hand, saying, “It’s in my way.”
    I wish I could remember more about that kiss. Our mouths, the scrape of his chin. But mainly what I remember is his hand on my neck and then along my cheek, his fingertips pushing my hair from my face.
    “Do you want to come in?” I said. It was out before I’d even thought it through, and for a second I winced, regretting it.