Twice Shy

14 TWICE SHY

Our cease-fire comes to an end the next day when he hears my phone buzz on the mantel. I don't get up.

He glances at the mantel, then at me. It's a long, considering look.

"Not going to see what that is?"
"Nope."

His suspicion is palpable, but I'm not mentally prepared to check my notifications. My heart is racing just knowing what it might be, and I have to give myself time to come down from the anxiety rush, bracing myself for bad news, before I brave a look.

One of the universities I've secretly been in touch with told me three days ago after I interviewed that she'd take a week to check my references and consider other applicants in the pool before emailing me with a decision. I've spent the day alternating between obsessively checking my phone and pretending the Internet doesn't exist. My nerves are shredded.

The longer I go on pretending I don't have a notification, the heavier Ilyaz's gaze becomes. It weighs on me, distrustful. I see his problem clearly, because it's one I've been struggling with myself: he has questions, but with the state our relationship is in right now, certain information feels privileged. We're not in a position to demand answers.

It's like when two people are casually dating but haven't made it official yet. In this tender stage, they're not entitled to know everything they want to know about each other, so they can't behave with unearned familiarity. That's how it feels between us. Ilyaz is frustrated by his restraint. The whole situation is an annoying dance that breeds resentment.

"How did Nazli's orientation go?"

I'm surprised by his interest, especially since he didn't even pretend he doesn't know her real name. "She says her boss is sleazy. She's already looking for a new—"

"Zahra doing well?"

"Uhh.." I pause. He knows Zahra and I aren't on good terms, what am I supposed to respond to this?

"Still talk to Fazle?"

I hum absentmindedly, shrugging. Fazle and I talk very occasionally, he's the sort of person to drop in out of blue and disappear for months. The type of guy you'd see going to Los Angeles on a whim and auditioning for a cast in films. In five years, you'd see him on Forbes list of Millionaires or on the Academy Awards.

Ilyaz's gaze darkens. His ankle jostles restlessly on his knee.

"What kind of lotion do you wear?" He asks out of blue.

"Huh?"

"I've been thinking of a lotion to give Rabia for Secret Santa, or a perfume. You know what women like,"

The lotion I wear is called Pure Seduction, and the perfume is usually Hypnotic Poison and Heat dabbed together. The notion of him giving Rabia anything with the words, "Seduction", "Hypnotic," and "Heat," is subsequently nineteenth century's equivalent of throwing a handkerchief. Even the thought makes me want to scratch my eyeballs out.

I sort through a stack of opened mail envelopes because I desperately need to break eye contact. I'm not as talented a liar as I used to think, and I don't want him seeing that this bothers me so much. I'm not giving him the name of my lotion even if he stabs bamboo shoots under my fingernails. Rabia can smell like rubber gloves and lacquer and stay in her own fucking lane.

My phone buzzes again. Is it the university? Or somebody else telling me no? There's a zero percent possibility that it's good news, whatever it is, so why bother getting up? What's the point in ruining the rest of my night and getting myself depressed tomorrow? I'm never checking my phone again. I'll become an anti-technology recluse. I'll be wholly dependent on Ilyaz, which he'll love. He wants to yank away all my safety nets before tossing me out to sea.