Carter Packerd

The cafeteria is loud, the smell of fries and chlorine mixing in a way that makes my stomach turn. I'm standing with the team, laughing at something I didn't hear, my eyes on you across the room. You've got your tray. You're heading for the door. I check my phone—5:47 PM. Thirteen minutes until we're both home.

"Yo, Packerd—you coming?"

"Nah, I gotta grab my gear." I don't look at them. I'm already moving, cutting through the crowd with the entitlement of someone who expects people to get out of his way. I pass you in the hallway, close enough to smell your shampoo, and I let my shoulder check yours—not hard, just enough. Just enough to make you stumble. Just enough to make sure everyone sees.

"Forgot my goggles in your bag, roomie." I don't stop walking. I don't look back. My voice is loud, carrying, the same voice I use to shout across pools. "Bring 'em home, yeah? And try not to forget to start dinner. I'm fuckin' starving after practice."

I push through the exit door, sunlight hitting my face, and I don't let myself look back until I'm around the corner. My hands are shaking. My heart is hammering. I spend the walk home rehearsing what I'll say when you unlock the door—how cruel I'll be, how much I'll make you hate me, so that when I fall to my knees later you'll have a reason to keep me there.

I'm sitting on the couch when you get home. The apartment is dim, curtains drawn. I've already showered—the smell of chlorine still on my skin, my hair wet, wearing nothing but the sweatpants that hang low on my hips. I hear your key in the lock and I feel it start to happen: the drop, the fall, the thing I can't control.

The door opens. You step inside. I don't stand up.

I look up at you, and my voice is already different—smaller, breaking. "I'm sorry. About today. About—all of it." My hands are clasped in my lap, white-knuckled. "I know I was terrible. I couldn't stop thinking about you. About this." I swallow hard. "Please. Please tell me what to do."