We stared at each other for a long moment.
“Hi Juliet,” he said. He sounded nervous.
“Hi.” I looked around, spotted my umbrella by the couch, and grabbed it.
“Heading to class?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I said, about to leave.
“Wait,” he said, when I touched the door handle.
I looked at him expectantly.
“Um. I — I’m sorry about what happened the other night.”
I raised a brow, and he blushed a deep red.
“I — I shouldn’t have propositioned you.”
Of course Ben was the type of person to use a word like proposition.
“And I completely understand if you want to move out. You are, right? You must hate me.”
“I don’t hate you,” I said calmly. “And I’m not angry about what happened on the couch. I started it.”
“But you are angry at me,” he said.
I didn’t contradict him. “I don’t appreciate being lied to. Or being made to feel crazy. Or being insulted. Listen, I don’t even care that you stole them. All you had to do was admit it and I would’ve —” I cut myself off, clamping my mouth shut.
He looked at me. “You would’ve what?”
Ripped your clothes off so I could see exactly what you’re hiding under your baggy clothing. Taken your glasses off, pushed the hair out of your eyes, and kissed the hell out of your face. Fucked the living daylights out of you.
I shook my head. “Forget it.”
Silence stretched out between us, and I couldn’t stand the tension. Besides, I had a class to get to. I left.
That evening, I let myself back into the apartment, feeling absolutely exhausted after a long day of classes, lectures, and cramming for tests at the library. In my bedroom, I unpacked my shoulder bag, taking my laptop and water bottle out. It took me a moment to notice what was on my bed: pink lacy panties.
I must’ve forgotten to lock my bedroom door. I only remembered to lock it half the time, anyway.
My panties were washed — I could smell the detergent — and folded neatly. Underneath was a note written in scrawly, tilted handwriting.
Juliet,
I’m sorry, for so many reasons. I should never have taken them. I’m a disgusting pervert. I don’t know what’s wrongwith me. I don’t know why I took them…I just saw them and I couldn’t help myself. Sometimes I can’t think clearly. I’m so, so sorry.
And I’m sorry for lying to you. I panicked and thought it would be worse if I admitted to stealing your underwear, but I realize I was wrong. I shouldn’t have insulted you. It was all a lie, anyway. You’re not pretty. You’re gorgeous. I bet every man who sees you wants you.
I’m sorry. I’m so so sorry. I’m sorry that I’m a creep. I understand if you hate me. I understand if you’ll never talk to me again. I understand if you’ll move out immediately and tell everybody I’m a psychotic pervert. I’d deserve it.
Ben.
After reading the letter, I read it again, more carefully, my chest feeling tight. How could a letter provoke so many emotions? My heart felt like it stopped when I readYou’re gorgeous. Part of me was still angry. Part of me was gratified. Part of me wanted to find Ben, wrap that pathetic nerd into a hug, and tell him, it’s okay. You’re not a pervert. Or maybe you are, but don’t hate yourself over it.
In the end, I folded the note up carefully and placed it in my bedside table. I put the panties in my underwear drawer.
The next morning, I ran into Ben, who was in the kitchen, making breakfast.
