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But I’m not goingto.
When she looked up at me at the school by the lockers, reminding me exactly why we’re not doing this, it was the wakeup call Ineeded.
What we are, what we have, it’s not about sex. It’s how I feel when I’m withher.
Playing this thing out physically—even if she still wanted to—would only complicatethings.
Still, I realized one thing tonight. If I’m thinking I can keep her from getting under my skin, I’m deluded. She’s already there. I know it with every smile and bob of her ponytail. With every joke that feels like it’sours.
“What’re we watching?” Rena asks, pulling meback.
“Back to the Future,” I announce with relish, getting comfortable on the couch as I pull up theDVR.
“I’m surprised you don’t ownit.”
“I do.” She raises a brow, so I add, “But it’s bad luck not to watch it when it’son.”
We start the movie. In my limited experience, girls want to talk through the whole thing. Renadoesn’t.
“What’re you thinking?” I ask partway through, needing to be in herhead.
“I’m wondering what it is about eighties movies that makes them so goodtoday.”
“They have the same message—no matter who you are, you have the power to be anything youwant.”
“No. It’s ‘Everything you thought you knew about the world iswrong.’”
“Or that all you need to save the day and get the girl is science and a cool car,” Idecide.
I glance over at her, the jeans clinging to her curvy legs. Her face nearly free of makeup, and a smile lingering on her lips as she goes back to themovie.
She looks younger like this. It should bug me, because I’ve already got a few years onher.
Itdoesn’t.
Maybe because the ponytail’sback.
Or because her cheek has healed, leaving no trace of the mark from lastweek.
As if Friday neverhappened.
Which should be a good thought, but suddenly, I don’t likeit.
At the end of the movie, she squares to face me, pulling her ankles up and reaching for her half-drunkbeer.
“Well?” I ask, trying for casual as if I don’t care about herassessment.
“There’s one thing I don’t get. You wanted to be Michael J. Fox or theprofessor?”
“Easy now.” I grab her beer and tip it back, wincing as I realize the last gulp iswarm.
“I didn’t say you aren’t ahotprofessor.” Shegrins.
“I might not be any kind of professor at this rate,” I say under my breath as I get up to take the empty bottles to thekitchen.
“What do youmean?”
“I’ve been waiting on a job talk. Now, it might not happen until next semester. Or ever. They think I’m too focused on research. Tootheoretical.
