Page 39 of You'll Never Know I'm Here

“You tell me.” He raises his hand as he moves to stand in front of me, bringing it to rest on my hip.

“I was thirsty.”

He laughs, his breath hitting my skin. We’re just inches apart, his warm, earthy scent filling my nose. He clicks his tongue. “I don’t think you’re telling the truth.”

“I like talking to you,” I admit. “And I don’t know why.”

“Tell me about it,” he whispers, and finally, we’re in complete agreement about something. We don’t make any sense together, and yet I find myself drawn to him in a way I’ve never been drawn to anyone. Just a day ago, I hated him and wished I hadn’t come on this trip because he was here. Now, that feels preposterous. He lifts a hand, again not really seeming like he knows he’s doing it, and cups my jaw, his thumb resting on my cheek. “It’s driving me crazy.”

“What is?” I whisper, resting my forehead against his before I realize I’ve moved.

“You are. This is. Whatever this is.”

I’m not sure there’s a word for it or that putting a word to it won’t somehow ruin this. I’m not sure we’re not both just running on pure adrenaline from the events of the evening, or that exhaustion isn’t getting the better of us.

What I know is that when his eyes close, so do mine. And when I feel his chin tilting toward mine, I meet him inch for inch. I shouldn’t want this, but I do.

Something is very, very wrong with me.

“Lena, I—”

THUMP.

We wrench apart at the sound of a soft noise across the room. I turn, trying to make out where the sound came from or what it was. Memphis moves away from me, heading for the sound, and flips on a light as he goes.

“Did you hear that?” he asks from the doorway.

“It sounded like someone bumped into something. A table, maybe. Or a chair.” I follow quickly behind him, not wanting to be left alone.

“Who’s there?” he calls, shouting into the dining room before he flips on the light in there. The room is empty and nearly silent; the only sound is that of the softtickof the clock above the fireplace.

He circles the table, then leads me out into the living room to check there. The stack of books we used earlier to place our papers on during the game is scattered across the floor, but other than that, nothing seems out of place.

“Was this like that before?” He gestures toward the stack.

“I…I think so.” I try to remember. “I don’t know if anyone stacked them up after the game.”

“Logan would’ve, though. Right?” He checks over his shoulder, looking out the window.

“Maybe not. We were all frazzled after that weird confession.”

He doesn’t look convinced, but eventually, the worry fades from his face, replaced by a new expression that can only be described as regret. The weight of what happened between us in the dark kitchen now feels heavy in the lighted room.

He runs a hand through his hair. “It’s an old house. Probably just the pipes or something.”

I nod. “Right.”

He clears his throat, looking down. “You should, uh, we should go to bed.Separately. I should go back to my room.”

“Right. Yeah.” I step backward. He’s right, and still, it hurts. It feels like rejection.

“I, uh—”

“It’s okay.” I spin around, heading for the kitchen. “I’m tired, anyway. We’ll talk tomorrow, yeah?”

Before he can answer, I disappear into the kitchen, then into the foyer, and back up the stairs. Every few seconds, I check over my shoulder, though I’m not sure if I’m looking for the source of the sound or for Memphis to follow me.

In the end, I find neither.

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