One Week

Day THREE



“I don't think I can face daytime without some seriously strong coffee,” Jess says, and closes the curtain. “Do you want to go find a Starbucks or something?”

“Sure,” I say. I glance down at myself. I'm still wearing Jess's T-shirt and sweatpants. “I'll just go get dressed,” I say sheepishly. “I'm sure you'd like these back.”

I let myself into my room, where I am dismayed to discover that my clothes are still damp. Like, really damp. The shirt is okay, but if I squeezed hard enough I bet water would drip out of my jeans. I'm struggling to get into them when there's a knock at the door.

“Just a sec!” I call, jumping and tugging at the waistband.

“It's just Starbucks, Bee!” Jess calls. “No need to primp.”

I yank the door open in irritation, and finish buttoning my jeans. “I'm not primping,” I say irritably.

“I can see that,” Jess says cheerfully.

I run a hand through my tangled hair and make a face. “Should we go ask the front desk about where to get coffee?”

“We could,” Jess says. “But I think we'd just get stared at. I don't think people really ask for directions here. We'll find something. We're still in California, after all.”

And, of course, he's right, and there's a Starbucks at the train station. We walk/hobble over, and I order the largest and most espresso-filled drink they have. It's slightly terrifying, but it feels like a necessity.

After we finish our coffee and split a scone, Jess pushes me in the direction of the newsstand on the other side of the terminal.

“Our train leaves in about forty-five minutes. Go buy yourself some books or something, would you? You were driving me crazy reading over my shoulder like that yesterday.”

I make my way over to the newsstand, shaking my head. He had seemed so engrossed in his book, I didn't think he'd noticed. And it was either read over his shoulder or claw my eyes out. Not that his book was much better. A biography of some dead jazz musician? People read those?

I give the newsstand selection a quick glance and sigh. We've got bodice-rippers, really cheesy-sounding P. I. mysteries, Dan Brown, and Harry Potter. I grab one of each. I also snag a deck of cards and a couple of bags of Skittles. Maybe I can talk Jess into playing Skittle poker at some point.

I walk out of the newsstand and look around until I spot Jess. He's on the payphone again. Hasn't the man ever heard of cell phones? He doesn't look too pleased with the conversation, and I figure it's his mom again. Though why he would call her just to get yelled at is beyond me. Masochist. If there's one thing about payphones, it's that nobody can call you on them—you initiate all contact. So why would Jess be putting himself through this, again and again?

The guy needs to be rescued from himself. I walk around behind him and tap him on the shoulder. He turns around and mouths “What?”

“The train's leaving,” I say.

Jess frowns and looks over at the board. “No, it isn't,” he says. “We've got another half an hour. Give me a sec.” He turns back to the phone. “Uh huh,” he mumbles. “I know.”

I roll my eyes. Most people, given an out like that, would take it in a heartbeat. Leave it to Jess to be either too self-sacrificing or too stupid to figure it out.

“No, Jess,” I say loudly. “It's leaving right now. We have to go.”

Jess whips his head around and glares at me. “I'm sorry, hold on for just a moment,” he says into the phone, then covers the mouthpiece with his hand.“What?” he says, exasperated. “Will you give me a minute? We have plenty of time!”

“Yeah, I know,” I huff. “I'm just trying to help you out here—you're on the phone with your mom again, aren't you?”

“So what?”

“So why are you bothering if you're just going to get yelled at? Most people who are old enough to get kicked out of college on a drug bust don't report their every move to their mother, you know. Call her when you get to New York if you have to, but in the meantime, chill out, would you?”

Jess grips the phone with one hand and runs his other hand through his hair, making it even more unruly than it already is. “Look, Bee,” he says tightly. “I get that you and your father have issues, and so you ran away. That's your business. But see, most of the rest of us in the world are not heiresses that can just run away from our problems. We have responsibilities. When you get to New York, you can do whatever the hell you want. When I get to New York, I have to figure out how to pick up my life again, because my life affects the lives of the people that depend on me and have sacrificed for me. So yeah, I am calling to check in with my mother, and I am being yelled at, and I'm just going to suck it up. Okay?”

“Who is that? Who has run away?” I hear the voice on the other end of the line squawking. “Jess?”

Jess looks at me for a long moment before answering. “It's nobody, Mom,” Jess says into the phone, and then turns away from me. I stand there staring at the back of his neck, feeling the blood rush up to my face.

After last night, I thought…I don't know what I thought. Is that how Jess sees me?

And worse—is that how I really am?

I try to shake myself out of it. Who cares what he thinks, anyway? Obviously whatever connection we had last night was something so flimsy it can't last in the light of day. I walk away, and wander around aimlessly, and then decide to just get on the train.

I show my rail pass to the train attendant, and am delighted to discover that it does in fact entitle me to a sleeping cabin. Or “roomette,” as they're calling it. It's about the size of a closet. Not my closet—mine is pretty big, come to think of it. But someone's closet.

Anyway. Like most closets, including mine, it doesn't have a toilet or a shower or anything—I still have to go use the public ones at the end of the car. But it's something. And the seats fold out into a bed, so maybe I can get some decent sleep. It looks like there's another pull-down bed up above. And they provided sheets and blankets, and I can adjust the air-conditioning, and there's a little table that folds out. And that's about all my exploring has to offer. I kick my bag of books from the newsstand out of the way and flop down on one of the seats. It occurs to me that Jess will have no way of finding me here—if, that is, he would even bother trying. Which he probably won't.

I rummage through my purchases and pull out a bodice ripper. If I actually saw somebody on the street with hair and muscles like the guy on the cover, I'd have to run away and hide. Or point and laugh. The girl does have nice hair, though, and isn't it handy how it's covering her exposed breast like that? I prop my feet up on the chair opposite me and try to immerse myself in the problems and passions of Lady Delia Swarthmore, Virgin Extraordinaire, and her dashing pirate kidnapper.

I look up from Lady Delia's predicament (should she continue to wear her sodden and formerly sensible but now completely revealing dressing gown, or should she accept the scandalously low-cut gown from the likes of the pirate?) as the train lurches into motion. No sign of Jess. I suppose he must have found a seat someplace else. Which is fine. I sink down lower into the seat and try to make myself care about Lady Delia's ditherings, but I just can't manage it. I fling the book across the room, which is too tiny to make the flinging at all satisfactory, and bite my lip.

I hate feeling like a spoiled brat. I go out of my way to avoid the spoiled brat mentality. If I actually were a spoiled brat, I would have no problem with anything in my life—I would be all “Yay clothes! Yay famous men! Yay parties!” just like everybody I know thinks I should be. And I'm not. Obviously. I'm running away from all of that.

Which is totally the mature and responsible thing to do.

Or not.

I cover my face with my hands and scream into them. But quietly. Wouldn't want to disturb the other passengers.

Clearly running away is not a solution to anything, nor is it particularly independent or empowering to do it using Daddy's credit cards. I do realize that. So what the hell am I doing here? What is this supposed to accomplish, exactly?

I don't know what I'm doing. Which is the whole problem. I've never known what I'm doing. I've spent my entire life not knowing what parts of my life are mine, and what parts are manufactured for show, and I just wanted to get away from all the demands and expectations and noise so that I could figure it out. But yeah, I guess my chosen method of self-discovery is a little irresponsible.

But accepting pot deliveries for your friends isn't? Please. Jess has no business being even remotely judgmental. And I'm an idiot for caring at all about what he thinks.

With my attitude properly readjusted, I walk the two steps it takes to cross the roomette and pick up my book. Lady Delia deigns to accept the scandalously low-cut dress that was probably previously worn by a prostitute. Of course.

The slow—and then whoa, not so slow—whittling away of Lady Delia's standards and inhibitions passes more time than I thought it would, and when my rumbling stomach causes me to look up, the sun is already setting and we're well clear of the greater Sacramento area. I lean my chin against the window and look out at the flat deadness of Nevada—or that's how I've always thought if it, anyway. With the sun setting and the brush flying past, it looks golden and alive.

I look at my bags of Skittles doubtfully and decide my stomach is empty enough to deserve some real food. After a day in which I ate nothing but a tiny cheeseburger and some chips and a Snickers from your friendly neighborhood vending machine, I'm starving. I dig the key the attendant gave me out of my back pocket and lock up the roomette, and head off in search of the dining car. Which probably won't have real food either, I realize, but it's got to be at least slightly less plastic than Skittles.

I stumble through car after car (how long is this train, anyway?) before finally coming to the dining car. I slide the door open, stumbling slightly as the train jerks, and look up to see Jess sitting at one of the tables.

I don't know whether to back away or what, but he smiles widely and gestures me over.

“Hey,” he says, as I slide into the seat across from him. “I looked for you, but I couldn't find you anywhere. Where are you sitting?”

It's like nothing happened at all. “I, uh, it turns out I have a roomette,” I stammer.

Jess gives me a weird look. “Like a Rockette? Does it kick?”

God, what a lame joke. But honestly, I'm so relieved to have someone to talk to that I'll give it to him. “No,” I scoff. “It's a tiny little room, like even tinier than rooms on trains usually are, apparently, but it's private.” I look at him out of the corner of my eye to see if he's going to give me any crap about being spoiled and getting a private room and not riding in coach like normal people. But he doesn't.

“Sweet,” Jess says calmly. “Well, here are your choices.” He passes me the menu. “Overcooked pasta, scary chicken, and weird vegetable medley. I opted for the vegetables.”

I wrinkle my nose. “I hate eggplant. Why do vegetarian dishes always have to have eggplant?”

Jess shrugs. “Maybe because it's kind of hearty?”

“This is why more people aren't vegetarians,” I complain. “There are so many good vegetables in the world, but if you order the vegetarian dish, it always has weird-tasting slimy things like mushrooms and leeks and eggplant.”

“Were you planning on being a vegetarian, but then the threat of eggplant stopped you?”

I chuckle. “Not exactly. But my best friend Julia is a vegetarian and I have a lot of empathy for them. I have no choice, since she complains almost every day.”

“Does Julia know where you are?” Jess asks.

I shake my head. “She wouldn't be able to keep it to herself. Nobody knows.”

“Hmm.”

“What hmmm?” I ask.

“Nothing,” Jess shrugs. “That's kind of brave, that's all. You know, completely cutting yourself off from everyone.”

I look at him suspiciously to see if he's trying to make up for his rude and undeserved comments earlier.

“I've never been able to do that,” he continues. “You called me a mama's boy—”

“I didn't exactly say that…” I interrupt.

“I know, but that's what you meant. And I got a lot of shit about it at school too, for calling home and checking in all the time. I felt like I had to—my mom has four more kids at home, and I'm the oldest and was always around to help out and stuff. It's been hard on her having to do everything on her own, plus having to pay for my room and board.”

“You got a scholarship though, right?” I ask.

“Yeah. And I have…I guess, had a job, but it didn't cover everything. So even before my giant f*ckup, I called all the time. But maybe it wasn't so much for my mom and my brothers and sisters as it was for me. Like maybe I couldn't let go of them either.” Jess looks away from me, and I realize suddenly that most of the time he looks right at me when he's talking to me.

I want to ask him what that must be like—to have family that you feel so close to that you want to talk to them, to help them out. But I don't really know how to say it, and I feel like I'd sound all self-pitying if I tried. And then it's too late, and the waiter comes with Jess's mystery vegetable medley.

Jess looks at them and sniffs uncertainly.

“Would you like anything?” the waiter asks me.

“Um, I'll have the pasta. Thank you.”

“That was probably the better choice,” Jess says as he stabs a piece of eggplant with his fork. “I'm not sure when these vegetables were last in the ground. Maybe a year ago.”

I smile at him uncertainly. Does this mean we're cool now? Jess didn't exactly take back what he'd said, or implied anyway, about me being a spoiled little rich girl. But then again, I figure people don't just go around talking about their family and their problems with someone they don't have any respect for. Or maybe they do. Maybe Jess does. I don't, anyway.

“Want some?” Jess holds out his fork. I look at the grey, limp mushroom—at least, I think it's a mushroom—and wrinkle my nose.

“No, thanks.”

I keep him company while he finishes his dinner, and then he keeps me company while I choke down mine.

“Uh, do you want to come hang out in the roomette?” I ask hesitantly.

Jess grins. “I thought you'd never ask. Let me just swing by my seat and grab my bag.” He signals the waiter for the check, and then looks at me expectantly.

“What?” I ask.

“Do you think I could have the rest of my eighty bucks now? I'll buy your pasta, but I need your money to do it.”

I dig into my purse for my wallet, blushing. I can't believe I never paid him. I'm usually really good about stuff like that. I hand him the money, and insist on buying my own dinner.

“You already bought me a cheeseburger,” I remind him. “In fact, I should take this one.”

“No way,” Jess says firmly. “If you're going to buy me dinner, it had better be something better than this.”

We end up splitting it, though Jess spends the hike back to the roomette speculating on which New York restaurant he should have me take him to when we finally get there. I do my best to ignore him.

“Wow,” Jess says after I unlock the door. “This is the smallest room that has ever existed. Except for maybe those pods in Tokyo.”

“It doesn't even qualify as a room,” I agree.

“Which is why they call it a roomette, I guess.” Jess takes the seat opposite the one I'd spent the afternoon in, and immediately the roomette feels infinitely smaller than it already was. I have to squeeze past him to sit down, and since Jess is slouching down, there's no way for me to sit without our knees touching.

Jess spots my book, and grabs it before I can stop him.

“Wow,” he laughs, looking up from the page I'd marked. “Delia sure has skills, for someone who…” He checks the back cover. “For someone who was raised by nuns in the south of France.”

“It's what they sell at the newsstand,” I mutter, looking away. “There aren't exactly a lot of options, and I was desperate.”

“I guess you must have been. What else did you get?” Jess leans over the side of his seat and digs around in my bag of purchases, and comes up with the deck of cards. “Good thinking,” he says. He opens the pack and begins shuffling. “What do you want to play?”

I shrug. “Whatever. What do you know?”

We start off with War because it's likely to pass a lot of time. Which is true, but it's so freaking mindless I wonder if it actually makes time slow down. Like maybe it would be more interesting to just stare at the wall. But then we start to get into this rhythm. We're not talking at all, just slapping down cards and picking them up, and it's comfortable and quiet. Like when you're sitting in the pool, and you know you've stayed in the water too long and your fingers and toes have gotten all pruney, but you just want to float for a while longer anyway.

Eventually Jess wins and is disproportionately pleased by this—it's not like it takes a lot of skill, I remind him. I take the deck, and give it a quick riffle shuffle, and place it on the table for him to cut. He does so, raising his eyebrows.

“Fancy,” he comments. “Something I should know?”

Only that it's time to play something a little more interesting. “There are two bags of Skittles in the bag,” I say. “Would you grab them?”

We designate different values for the different flavors. Jess has more Skittles of higher value than I do, but I'm not worried. I deal for Texas Hold ‘Em (we won't bother with blinds since there are only two of us).

“Do you know how to play this?” I ask.

Jess rolls his eyes. “Don't overplay it, Bee. I get it, you know how to play poker, but won't it be humiliating for you when I beat you?”

I smile sweetly. “I'm sure it will be. Your bet.”

Jess sighs and looks at his cards. “Orange Skittle.”

Wimpy bet. But it is early. I put down my orange Skittle—Lord knows I have plenty to spare—and deal out the flop. Hmm. Not bad. While it's likely that Jess has at least a pair of some kind, I've got a pair of kings, and could potentially work up to a flush.

Jess bets two yellows. A pair it is then, and not higher than tens. I raise him a purple Skittle. What the hell. And he calls. I deal the turn, and manage not to smile. I got my flush. Jess looks at his cards, because you know it's really hard to keep track of two cards, and checks. I consider betting again, but it'll probably just make him fold. I check, and deal the river.

Hmm. Potential problem. Now we've got a pair of sevens down, and if that's what Jess had as his pair, then we're talking at least a three of a kind and possibly a full house. Three of a kind I can handle. Full house I can't.

Jess bets two purples, which would be pretty conservative for a full house. Of course, he's played conservatively the whole time. I raise him a red, just to see what he'll do. He hesitates, and then calls.

Yep, three sevens. I smile. I'd best remember to brush my teeth tonight, all the Skittles I'll be eating.

The game continues pretty much like that. I do lose some hands—Jess is pretty stoic, so it's not like it's easy to read him, necessarily, just his bets. At one point I frown, confused by something.

“What were you going to do if I didn't happen to show up in the dining car?” I ask.

“Huh?” Jess glances up mid-deal.

“You didn't have any money,” I explain. “I hadn't paid you back yet. How were you going to pay for your veggie delite?”

“Oh.” Jess looks embarrassed. “I, uh…well…”

“You weren't going to do a dine and ditch, were you?” I say, scandalized. “It's not like you have anywhere to run!”

“No, no,” Jess says hurriedly. “I…the truth is, I had a twenty in my bag. For emergencies,” he explains.

I cross my arms over my chest. “You had a twenty in your bag. When you were screaming at me in the bus station in Santa Barbara, you had a twenty in your bag?”

“Uh, yeah.” He looks really embarrassed now. “But it really was—is—for emergencies. I have hypoglycemia, so I have to eat something every few hours, like clockwork, or I get sick. Seriously. And it's not like twenty dollars would really have been enough to cover all that time anyway, but it…. did kind of make my argument seem weaker, so I decided not to mention it.”

“Hypoglycemia,” I say skeptically.

“Right. It's why I got so drunk so fast that day,” he explains. “If I ate all these Skittles,” he looks down at his diminished pile. “Well, I'd probably be fine. But if I ate all your Skittles, an hour later I'd be shaky and disoriented. It's not pretty.”

I stare at him, shaking my head.

“I'm sorry,” he says humbly. “I shouldn't have yelled at you like that. I just get freaked out about not having food. It can get pretty bad. Really.”

“How have I not noticed anything about this, if it's so terrible?”

“I don't know,” Jess shrugs. “I snack a lot. I have peanuts and dried fruit and whatever. And you're usually sleeping,” he points out.

I check the time on my cell phone. “It's been three hours since dinner. Do you need a snack?”

“What, now you're my mother?” Jess cracks, and then looks away when I don't smile. “Uh, yeah. I guess I do.”

He fishes around in his duffel bag and pulls out a bag of peanuts. “Want some?”

The bag is nearly empty. “No thanks. Do you have any more of those?”

“I can get some more at the snack bar,” he says, and tosses back a handful.

I eye him doubtfully—if it's as serious as he says, this seems a little cavalier to me—but I guess he knows how to deal with it. Not my problem, anyway.

“I can't believe you lied to me about not having any money,” I complain.

“I really am sorry,” he says contritely. “I was tired and hung over and I hadn't eaten in hours so, you know, I was having an episode, but it was a total dick move. I suck.”

“Yes,” I agree. “You do.” I nod at the cards. “Now deal. I'd best take all your Skittles so they don't turn you into an a*shole or something.”

Jess grins and finishes dealing. It occurs to me that had this conversation occurred yesterday, or even a few hours ago, we would both have been screaming at each other and Jess would have stormed off back to his coach seat and I would have sat here playing solitaire for the rest of the trip. Even after last night, we got into a fight over nothing when Jess was on the phone this morning. But now, he actually admitted he was wrong. And apologized. And I didn't overreact and yell at him and say something mean that I'd regret. I wonder what changed?

I study him surreptitiously as we play. He's not a bad guy, really, once you get to know him. Which is hard to do, since he's got this electrified wall of Keep Away thing going on. But I guess if I'm honest, I have one of those too. They can be necessary, but they aren't exactly easy to take down once you're used to having them up.

But now that Jess has loosened up some, I don't know…he's not that bad. He's different from what I thought at first, at least. He may yell a lot, but I have to admit he's been pretty patient with me. And he's kind of sweet when he's talking about his mom and his family and all. He's straightforward, and he's honest, and I can't say that I know too many people like that. It makes for a pleasant change.

I have to say, he's also a lot cuter than I thought he was. I mean, the hair is terrible, there's no getting around that, but he has a nice face. And his eyes—I duck my head quickly to avoid them as he looks up suddenly. They're good eyes to have, is all I'm saying. They get all crinkly at the edges when he laughs, or when he's talking about something he cares about.

I like Jess, I realize, and bite my lip. I like him a lot. I care what he thinks of me, and I can't say that that's true of many people. Or anybody, really, since nobody, including my father and Julia and everybody else who might be considered close to me, really knows who I am or has any sense of what I might be like outside of their own personal worldview. Jess isn't like that. He—

“Hey, I thought you were supposed to be kicking my ass,” Jess says as he collects a large pile of skittles. “At this rate, you'll have me bouncing off the walls, and this room is way too small for that.”

“A fluke,” I say, and resolve to pay more attention to the game. “Law of averages. You have to win sometimes.”

“Uh huh,” Jess smirks. “I'm sensing a comeback. I'll just have to distribute my winnings among all the small fry on the train.”

“Yeah, and I'm sure their parents will be delighted,” I scoff. “More likely they'll call the train police to arrest you for attempting to poison their children.”

“It's a cold and suspicious world,” Jess agrees.

There's a knock at the door of the roomette. I get up carefully so as not to send the Skittles rolling all over the place, and open the door to find a porter standing there.

“Would you like some assistance setting up the beds?” he inquires.

I turn and look at Jess, who looks at his watch. “Wow, it's eleven o'clock already,” he says. “The trip is going by pretty fast.” He stands up and stretches. “Well, I'd best be getting back to my seat. Do you want to meet at the dining car for breakfast?”

I glance at the porter, who is waiting patiently, and clear my throat. “Um, there are two beds,” I say. “Do you want to just stay here? I'm sure it will be more comfortable than your seat.” The porter nods agreement, smiling slightly. I try really hard not to blush.

Jess looks around and sticks his hands in his pockets awkwardly. “Um, okay. You sure?”

“Absolutely.” I step aside to allow the porter into the room, and then quickly realize there isn't space for the three of us to be in there. I go stand in the hallway, and Jess follows me out.

“Do you want the top bunk or the bottom bunk?” I ask, mostly for something to say.

“Whichever. Your roomette, you should get first pick.”

“Right,” I say. Jess puts his hand against the small of my back to move me out of the way of a woman trying to get past us. “The bathroom is down that way,” I say. “You know, if you want to brush your teeth or something.”

“Why, do I need to?” Jess laughs softly.

“Not that I've noticed,” I smile at him. “But all the dentists in the world say you should.”

The porter comes out of the room, and I jump. “All set,” he says.

“Thank you,” I say, and run quickly to my bag to fish out a tip.

“Have a good night,” the porter says, and closes the door behind him.

Jess and I stand together awkwardly. There really isn't space to be in the room with the beds down.

“Looks like the game is over,” Jess says, and nods at the Skittles. They've all been grouped into one pile.

“It's all right,” I say. “I would've won them all eventually anyway.”

“Probably,” Jess agrees. He scoops them into his hand. “Are you planning on eating these?”

I shake my head. “Not very hygienic.”

“Right.” Jess looks around for a place to put them, and ends up dumping them into his empty bag of peanuts. “Do you want to go brush first?”

“Sure,” I say. I pull my toothbrush and toothpaste out of my bag—yes, I'm one of those obsessive people that brush three times a day. Or I usually am, anyway. It's been kind of hard to manage these past few days. “I'll be right back.”

After waiting several minutes, it's finally my turn to use the bathroom. I stare at myself in the mirror. I don't exactly look my best. I haven't blow-dried my hair, I'm not wearing any makeup, and my clothes are…never mind. Their impromptu laundering in The Golden Cicada's shower didn't improve things as much as I'd have liked. At least I can make sure my breath is fresh.

As I sit on the bottom bunk waiting for Jess to come back from his turn in the bathroom, I twist my fingers in the sheets nervously. Which is ridiculous, because it's not like this is the first time Jess and I have shared a room. We have essentially spent the last fifty-six hours in each other's company, so if we're not comfortable with each other at this point…well. And really, what do I have to be nervous about?

Oh, who am I kidding? Our…friendship, I guess, has taken a different turn. There's this new vibe, and of course it's making me nervous. And now we're going to be sleeping in the same room…and I'm not even sure what I mean by that. Are we going to be sleeping together, or sleeping together?

I twist my fingers deeper into the sheets. My inexperience with guys is pretty…extensive. We're talking inexperience the size of Alaska. There was that time I made out with the son of some business associate of my father's. That was pretty fun. But the time before that was with the paperboy I dragged upstairs for reasons I now can't quite remember (I think I was pissed off about something, though I'm not sure why I thought rolling around in bed with the pimply paperboy was a clever form of revenge). That wasn't that much fun.

And that about sums it up. Only Julia knows how very wide and deep my inexperience runs. The other girls at school (including Julia, come to think of it) have managed to get around whatever restrictions their parents may or may not have placed on them. I'm sure I could have too, I just never wanted to. But after the thing with Thom Derrek, I kind of feel like…like maybe I'd like to kind of take back control of that part of myself.

Jess comes back in, and I jump. “So you're taking the bottom bunk, then?” he asks.

“Uh, yeah, I guess so,” I say. How does one get this kind of thing started? “Are you…sleepy?”

Jess shrugs. “Not really. But it's tough to do anything with these down,” he says, gripping the overhead bunk. He sits down next to me and begins taking off his shoes.

“Right,” I say. “Not a lot of options left. With what to do with our time.” I have no idea what I'm saying.

Jess reaches down to shove his sneakers under my bunk, and I kick off my sandals.

“Jess?” I say.

“Hmm?” He looks up at me, and I lean down and kiss him. Just like that. I feel him jump in surprise, and then he's relaxing a little, moving closer to me, his arm reaching around my waist.

And then he's gone. I open my eyes as he stands up quickly, banging his head on the top bunk in the process.

“Ow,” he says, and rubs his forehead.

“Are you okay?” I ask, and reach for his arm. He snatches it away, and I pull back, hurt. “What? What's wrong?”

“Nothing,” Jess says, not looking at me. “I just…” he sighs. “Bee, I don't think this is a good idea.”

The pit of my stomach sinks and feels cold. I don't want to ask, but I can't help myself. “Why not?”

“Because…” Jess rubs his hands in his hair, frustrated. “Because you're just a kid.”

Excuse me? “I'm seventeen, if you're worried about the legalities of the situation,” I say. I don't mean for it to sound harsh and defensive, but it does. Did I imagine that moment last night as I was falling asleep?

“That's not really what I meant,” Jess says awkwardly. “It's not that I don't want to, I really do, but…Look, I like you a lot, okay? But…as a friend. You're kind of lost right now, you know? I don't want to take advantage of that. And you're sort of going wherever you feel like, doing whatever you feel like, and I don't want you to do something you'll regret later, and I'll be left…I just don't think it's a good idea,” he finishes.

I take a deep breath. I can't look at him. The roomette feels smaller than ever. What was I thinking? I want to crawl in a corner and die. I'm so humiliated. He still thinks I'm an irresponsible, flaky kid. Fine. But no guy I've ever met or heard of would turn down an offer in this situation because the girl in question is irresponsible. He's just trying to be nice, let me down easy. Which is so much worse.

“Bee, I really—”

“It's cool,” I interrupt. “I get it. We'll just pretend it never happened.”

“Okay,” Jess says, relieved. I hope he'll go back to his seat and leave me alone, but he doesn't. Instead he vaults himself up to the top bunk and moves around settling himself in. “Good night, then,” he says.

“Good night,” I echo hollowly, and switch off the light.