turnpike

iii

✗ ✗ ✗

He doesn't hold me for much longer.

After a few minutes, he rolls back to his side of the bed without a word. There's no "goodnight" or even the usual "you can go." It's just the soft sigh of him relaxing into the pillow-top and forgetting I exist.

I'm left alone in the middle, slowly readjusting to the loss. I should be used to this, used to the way he makes me go from feeling so wanted to unwanted in the span of a few seconds, but tonight it feels like a blow. 

He's never touched me like this before, never been so attentive or affectionate. Those aren't words I thought I would ever use to describe something between us, but I cannot say they don't fit or that I hate the sound of them. Still, I'm used to the contact of distant partners, the ones who will fling an arm across the other in exhausted bliss, but never cradle or clutch each other for fear of loss.

Eventually, I move to my own side, leaving the warmth of our once shared space for a sliver of coolness. His bed is unbearably comfortable, perfect for sleeping, but I know better than to spend the night. Besides, it's almost six-thirty. The sun may have just started to rise, but I should have been out of here ages ago.

I glance over at him one more time. He's face down, one arm tucked under his pillow, the other dangling off the edge of the mattress. It's a pose of pure exhaustion, and I'm sure he's passed out by now, making this my opportunity to escape.

Swinging my feet to the floor, I slowly make to stand. My thighs are still trembling and the ache has begun to set in. I sigh, hating that I've missed this feeling, but it's a reminder that he still wants me. 

"Are you leaving?"

I press an arm to my chest as I glance over my shoulder. He's turned over to look at me, sheet draped haphazardly across his hips. His eyes are barely open and his arm is outstretched towards my side of the bed, as if beckoning me back.

I nod. "I have to go."

"Why?"

"My roommates—" I begin to explain, but he interrupts me with a grunt.

"Fuck those girls," he says on a yawn, "they don't matter." He stills again a moment later, but that hand remains palm up towards me. "Stay with me."

I glance at the clock, watching it flash from six-thirty-one to six-thirty-two. I always thought I would jump at the opportunity to stay, because he's never asked me to before. It's a big step, a shift in a direction I hoped we would go, but it's late—or early, too early—and deep down I know I shouldn't. Still, the invitation is there, and I can only hope it has the result I expect.

"What if someone sees me leave in the morning?" I ask quietly, looking for any valid reason to go home.

He shrugs and settles further down in bed. "That doesn't matter anymore."

I open my mouth to mention Callie, but end up closing it. "Oh."

"Stay," he tells me again, eyes fluttering shut. "Get some sleep."

Part of me wants to gather my things and sneak away, just like I always do. There's another part that wants to run as fast and as far as I can, and never look back. But it's the third and last part I listen to, the one that lingers in the back of my head and sounds unsettlingly like him.

Lifting the covers, I slide back underneath and curl up on my side facing him. He's asleep now, but the city outside the window is beginning to wake, assisted by the rising dawn. His palm is still up, waiting for a promise to be fulfilled, and I can't let him down.