At some point the lamp on her desk went off.
Harper didn’t remember turning it off.
Maybe she had, reaching back at some point during the last hour when the light started feeling too bright for whatever this was.
Maybe Miles had.
Maybe it had just decided, the way rooms sometimes decided things, that the dark was more appropriate for what was happening in it.
What was happening in it was this: nothing.
Technically.
Miles had moved from the floor to the bed at some point — she wasn’t sure exactly when, wasn’t sure who had moved first or whether anyone had said anything or whether it had just happened the way things happened between them lately, without a decision, without a conversation, like gravity had an opinion and they were both too tired to argue with it.
He was sitting against the wall at the head of her bed.
She was beside him.
Not touching — there was an inch of space between his shoulder and hers that was doing an enormous amount of work for one inch — with her knees pulled to her chest and the room quiet around them in the particular way it got after ten on a Tuesday when the campus had finally stopped performing for the day.
The lamp was off.
The only light came from the streetlight outside the window, slant and pale, cutting across the floor and not quite reaching the bed.
It was the most aware she had ever been of another person’s breathing.
“My mother used to say the house had a sound,” Miles said.
His voice was different in the dark.
Quieter, obviously — the room required it — but also something underneath the quieter.
Like he’d removed a layer she hadn’t known was there until it was gone.
“What kind of sound?” she asked.
“A specific one.
She’d say you could tell what kind of day my father had by how the house sounded when he came home.” A pause.
“He didn’t need to say much.
She could tell by how loud or quiet the house would be when he walked in from work.” Another pause, followed by a sigh.
“She could read the whole evening from the first thirty seconds.” “She sounds like she was very perceptive.” “She never missed a thing.” He said it with the particular quality of someone describing someone they’d loved past the point of still having them.
“I used to think it was something she did consciously.
Like a skill she’d learned.” He went quiet again for a moment.
“And now I know that because she loved and if you love someone you would know every detail about them.
She knew everything about him and he knew nothing about her, I’m now beginning to think if he ever loved her at all?” The streetlight moved slightly as the wind shifted outside, the shadow of a branch crossing the floor in slow motion.
Harper was aware of the inch between them.
She was aware of it with a specificity that was becoming difficult to manage.
“And funny thing is you do that too,” he chuckled a little.
She turned her head slightly.
“Do what?” “What she did.” He wasn’t looking at her.
He was still looking at the ceiling with his arms loose at his sides, and she had the distinct, slightly unnerving sense that he was being careful about looking at the ceiling.
Like the ceiling was a safe place to look while he said things he’d decided to say.
” You read the room too quick.
For example you knew something was wrong with me tonight before I’d said a word.” “You’re not that difficult to read․” “Nobody’s ever said that to me before․” “Then nobody was paying attention․” The words landed‚ and he sat there‚ his head having turned in the moment’s direction․ She felt it‚ the change of weight‚ and in the dark they briefly looked at each other‚ close enough to see the specific quality of his expression‚ which was the unguarded one‚ the one that cost him something․ “Harper‚” he said․ Her name in his voice in the dark‚ at this hour‚ in a room this small‚ did something she was not going to examine right now․ “Miles‚” she said back‚ trying to keep a neutral tone․ The corner of his mouth twitched․ “You always do that․” “Do what․” “Say my name back․ Like you’re reminding yourself of something․” “Maybe I am․” “What are you reminding yourself of?” She held his gaze in the dark and did not answer‚ nor needed to․ It was its own kind of answer‚ and they both knew it․ He looked back at the ceiling․ The room breathed around them.
She could feel the warmth coming off him — not touching, just that inch of space conducting heat the way space did when two people sat inside it long enough, close enough, in the particular charged atmosphere of a dorm room after midnight where everything felt more significant than it would have in daylight.
“What was she like?” Harper asked.
“Your mom.” He was quiet for long enough that she thought he might not answer.
Then: “Funny,” he said.
” She could light up the room in no time with her jokes, she was loving, caring and her laughter would fill the room, she was the most carefree person ever.” “She had opinions about everything․ She thought cilantro was a personality flaw‚ and parallel parking was a moral test․ She insisted that she read the same three books every year because they were reliable‚ like old friends‚ and she didn’t see why she needed to explain that to anyone․” Harper felt a twinge of discomfort in her chest․ “She was the only person who ever made my father seem like a reasonable option,” he said.
Not bitterly.
Just truthfully, which was worse and better simultaneously.
“He was different from her.
Or — he tried.
I don’t know if the difference is right.
He tried, which was more than he managed with anything else.” “When did she—” “December․” He said it simply․ “Third․ Two years ago․” December the third‚ and she didn’t even say she’d filed it․ “I didn’t go home for Christmas that year‚” he said․ “First time․ My agent had this training camp thing.
Now that I think about it, it was a great timing.
I really didn’t want to be around my dad at that time.And he didn’t bother having to ask me why I had skipped Christmas.” His voice was still even․ Still that quiet‚ late-night‚ layer-removed even․ “We’re very good at not saying things․ It’s probably our most developed family skill․” “Miles․” She said it gently․ “I’m okay‚” he said․ “It’s not-” He exhaled slowly․ “It’s not raw anymore․ It’s just the shape of things․ You know?” “I know‚” she said‚ and she did‚ in the specific way you knew things about grief when you’d grown up with the grief of watching someone you loved try to carry theirs alone for years․ The streetlight shifted again.
The shadow moved across the floor between them and kept going.
His arm was along the headboard.
Not around her — just along the headboard, which she was technically inside the radius of, in the purely geometric sense, which was not something she was thinking about.
She was absolutely thinking about it.
She was aware of his arm above her shoulder the way you were aware of something that had entered the periphery of the situation and declined to explain itself.
She was aware of the inch between their shoulders.
She was aware of the specific weight and temperature of the air in that inch in a way that was beginning to affect her ability to concentrate on the conversation.
His phone lit up on the floor.
The screen was up․ She saw the name in her peripheral‚ and at the same time‚ she felt him become still․ Kendall․ He didn’t even look at it․ He reached down‚ never taking his eyes from the ceiling‚ pressed the side button once‚ clean and final‚ silencing it without a glance‚ without a moment of deliberation‚ like the notification was background noise he was forcing himself not to hear․ The screen went dark․ He put his hand back․ Not on the headboard this time.
On the bed.
Between them.
Palm up.
Not reaching for her — she was absolutely certain he was not reaching for her, it was simply placed there, resting on the comforter in the dark, and she was reading too much into the placement, she was reading too much into everything tonight, everything in this room felt like it had been weighted by the dark and the lateness and the complete absence of the usual distance they kept between.
“Harper,” he said.
Low.
Quiet.
The specific register of his voice that she had mentally categorized as not responding to this, you have a boyfriend, this is a professional arrangement and had been successfully ignored for weeks.
She turned her head to find his face just a breath away.
The air between them instantly grew heavy.
And she could feel his exhale grazing her lips.
A sudden burning flush worked its way up her skin panting her face bright, betraying her as red as she tried to hold her breath.
“What are we doing, Miles?” she asked just above a whisper․ The rest of the room hardly stirred․ His eyes shifted from her lips to face as the streetlight shifted across the floor.
Somewhere down the hall a door opened and closed.