“Bet you’re well-traveled,” I say, and Whit shrugs.
“I have traveled, but most of it wasn’t for leisure.”
“That so?” I ask, and Whit nods.
“My parents would drag me to events all over the world. I rarely had time to explore like I wanted to.”
“Oh, how you suffered,” I joke, and Whit glances at me in all seriousness.
“I did, Caleb. My childhood was not…ideal.”
I blink at him. What the hell. What does that mean?
“Care to elaborate?” I ask.
“No.”
Silence engulfs the car's cabin, and I stare out the window. After a few minutes, Whit removes his hand from mine, wipes it on his pants, and places it back on the steering wheel. And I feel like shit.
Why did he wipe his hand? Am I grossing him out? Jesus, my mind is a mess.
“Sorry, man,” I mutter. “I just want to know you.”
Whit’s silent and then, “I don’t want to be known, Caleb.”
Well, no shit.
I snort and cross my arms, pissed that he’s so closed off. Not that he owes me anything, but I can get a hint. He doesn’t want to be known byme. I get it.
When we arrive back at the apartment, I’m in a terrible mood. I try to keep it civil, but I’m too silent, and Whit is watching me with wary eyes.
As soon as the door closes and the lock engages, Whit says, “I think we should end this before you get hurt.”
I scoff. “Oh, only I’d get hurt?”
Whit taps his fingers on his thighs and nods. “Yes, it’s for the best. You’re straight. This isn’t you. It’s a phase and….an experimentation.”
“That so?” I ask, and I can tell my questions about his statements are starting to annoy him because the rhythm he’s creating with his fingers is gaining speed.
“You’re not my type, as we’ve established. And I’m clearly not yours.”
“You sure?” I ask, and Whit’s fingers stop moving.
“Stop it, Caleb. We should remain roommates, that’s all. This whole thing was a bit of a mistake.”
I arch an eyebrow at him and then shrug, pretending like I’m not totally disappointed. Like I hadn’t envisioned crawling into bed with him tonight and pressing my face against his neck.
Of him saying my name while I came.
“Whatever you want, dude.”
I pull my shirt over my head and toss it onto the floor. Immature, I know, but I smirk when his eyes flare in annoyance. Makes me feel a little better.
That’s what you get, asshole.
Unbuttoning my pants, I fling them off with a kick, leaving them draped in the hall.
“I’m going to shower,” I tell him.