The Love Trap by Nicole French

14

2009

“Do you have anything to eat?” Eric asked as he opened the fridge. “I’m starving. You kind of sapped my energy, you know.”

I lolled over the countertop, purposefully pushing together what little cleavage I had. Okay, it wasn’t much. I was a B-cup on a good day. But Eric ogled cooperatively.

This wasn’t hard, the ooey gooey stuff. The “pleasing my man” thing. Twenty-four hours after I had watched this boy literally take a lock of my hair like a knight accepting his lady’s favor, I was all in. Head over heels. Stick fifteen forks in me. So done I was practically charred through.

After spending the last twenty-four hours doing nothing but alternately fucking like monsters and cooing like doves, we were both, apparently, finished with the pretense of push and pull. By some strange magic, the boy was more beautiful now, and that was really saying something. And he, apparently, thought the same of me, since whenever I caught him looking at me, he positively glowed.

I still couldn’t believe I’d actually given him that lock of hair. Who was I, Lady Guinevere?

“I need actual sustenance,” Eric said as he leaned over and nipped the curve of one breast. “I’d live on this if I could, but it’s just not possible, gorgeous.”

I grinned. I couldn’t help it. Eric preened at my open adoration of him as he turned back to the fridge. Good God, how had I gotten this lucky? The way the man filled out a pair of boxer shorts should be illegal. Meanwhile, I was also fucking alight, like one of the lanterns that kept Harvard Square twinkling even in the dead of winter.

Outside the window, the snow cloaking Cambridge shimmered with said lights.

Was this what it felt like to be in love? Okay, maybe it was a little early for that word, but I honestly wasn’t sure I could call it anything else. I’d never said it to anyone, never felt anything like it. I felt free even though another part of me was completely at this boy’s mercy. Eric could snap his fingers, and I’d bend right over this counter if he asked me. And at the same time, I felt like I could jump right off that fire escape and soar.

On your knees, he’d said more than once last night.

I hadn’t knelt. I’d practically jumped to the floor.

Come here, he’d ordered from the head of the bed.

I’d fucking flown.

A lock of hair. I had given him a lock of fucking hair.

I helped Eric mouse through what little Skylar and I had, shoving him aside and sticking out my ass, earning a swift swat across the cheek. I looked over my shoulder to find him grinning.

“If you wanted more, you could just ask,” he said, rubbing his palms together.

I wriggled my hips at him. “Aren’t you a little presumptuous? Maybe I want you to leave now that I’ve had my fill of you.”

Another sharp smack. This time I jumped. Eric laughed and pulled me back against his chest.

“If that’s true,” he said as he cupped my breast through my thin shirt, “then I’ve got a lot more work to do.”

I sank into his warm touch, allowing him to encircle me with his solid form.

“I do, however, need something to eat. Besides you. Do you actually have anything other than ketchup and fermented cabbage?” He toyed briefly with my nipple, then kissed my earlobe before releasing me. “Or do I need to venture out to get us some appropriate sustenance?”

I opened the fridge again and pulled out the only box that wasn’t a condiment. “All we have is some…I don’t know…I think there is something in here. Skylar’s, but she forfeits rights to her takeout.”

I handed Eric the container, which he opened. His stomach growled, and mine answered. Sex burned a lot of calories—especially the kind that he and I had.

“I think it’s Greek,” I said as I bent back to the fridge to pull out some of the kimchi he mentioned and a carton of eggs. “I can make us some noodles too. I have a lifetime supply in the cupboard.”

When I stood back up, however, Eric was still staring into the box like it contained the mysteries of life.

“Oh, sorry,” I said. “Is it moldy?”

I peeked in. It was not. I frowned. Eric still hadn’t moved.

“It’s spanakopita, Petri dish, not a pensieve. What’s wrong with you?”

When the nickname still didn’t provoke an answer, I was officially worried.

“Everything okay?” I asked.

Eric blinked and swallowed. His eyes refocused on me. “What?”

“Got something against Greek food? It’s okay, it wasn’t that good anyway. You should come to Chicago during spring break, after the winter storms are over. I’ll take you to Greektown, and we’ll get some spanakopita that’s not a mushy mess. I know this one place, it will knock your socks off…”

I was babbling nervously. Something had happened, and I really wanted to know what. Was he regretting the last twenty-four hours? The tickets, the lock of hair, the mind-bending sex? It was overwhelming, but surely he didn’t regret anything?

Did he?

He looked up. “We’ll get what?”

I swallowed. “Um, Greek food. You know, since you’re not happy with Skylar’s takeout, plus you’ve got that classics fetish?” I was trying to sound laid-back, but to be honest, his lack of response was starting to freak me out.

Eric frowned. “How did you know that?”

I rolled my eyes. “Eric, you have like twenty books of Greek and Roman poetry on your bookshelf. You didn’t think I missed that, did you? I am reasonably observant.”

Again, he didn’t respond, but that empty mask was hiding some serious gear-turning.

“Eric?” I ventured once more. I reached out to touch his hand. “What the hell is wrong?”

Suddenly, he was all movement, looking from side to side, tossing the box on the counter like it was a hot pan and darting around me toward the bedrooms.

“I…I need to go,” he said in a hurry. “I need to get out of here.”

I followed him back to the bedroom, where he was digging through the clothes on the floor.

“I’m going to get some real breakfast,” he said curtly as he yanked on his shirt. “We’ll—um, we’ll talk later, okay?”

“What? What happened to eating me for breakfast?” I was trying to be playful, but failed miserably. When your voice cracks like the San Andreas Fault, it’s sort of a giveaway.

But the time for flirtation was over anyway. Eric was too busy pulling on his pants, then shoving his feet into his shoes without even bothering to look for socks. Almost out of solidarity, I pulled on my neon-green bathrobe, wanting to cover myself up too. The room felt unaccountably cold.

“Eric?” I tried once more. “Eric, what’s wrong?”

He pulled on his jacket and tossed a scarf around his arm before stopping, finding me staring at him.

“Eric, I’m kind of freaking out here,” I said, pulling on a bunch of loose purple hair. Shit. In this bathrobe I probably looked like a Fraggle. Honestly, it was the first time I’d ever worried about how I looked the morning after. “I—what happened?” I tried yet again. “What did I do?”

He looked me over with an expression I couldn’t read. It was almost like he had just realized I was there. Was that regret? Sorrow? Fear? I didn’t know him well enough to interpret.

“Jane. I’m—fuck, I’m so sorry. But I—I can’t do this. I have to go.”

He pushed past me and dashed out of the apartment. The slam of the door catch woke me out of my stupor. What in the fuck had just happened?

No, I decided. He didn’t get off that easy.

Before I could stop myself, I was running out of the apartment, chasing him down the hall in my purple and green glory. When I heard the elevator doors close, I beelined for the stairs, doing my very best to beat him to the ground floor despite not exactly being an athlete.

I reached the ground floor just as the elevator doors opened, and Eric stepped out looking like a scared deer when he saw me shuffling toward him in my Jesus sandals, scruffy robe, and purple hair a mile high.

“Hey!” I called out while I sucked in breaths. “Eric!”

“Jane, go back upstairs. I told you, I’ll call you later.”

I knew he wouldn’t call. He couldn’t even meet my eye as he walked out of the building. I was something of an expert in brushoffs—giving and receiving them—and this had supreme ghosting written all over it.

The biggest difference was that this one was really, really going to hurt.

So I followed him out into the snow, caring absolutely nothing for the other students entering and leaving the building on the otherwise calm Cambridge street. Jesus fuck, it was cold out here. My toes were already turning white. Why hadn’t anyone warned me about the sudden onslaught of the New England winter?

“Eric!” I shouted.

He stopped at last, barely covered himself with his coat. I held out his gloves, which he took blindly. But I didn’t let go right away, instituting a kind of tug-of-war that forced him to talk to me.

“What in the hell is going on?” I asked. “Where are you going?”

Eric tugged on the gloves, then scowled when I wouldn’t release them. “Jane, can I have my gloves, please?”

He was so painfully formal.

“No,” I snapped. “Not until you tell me what the hell is happening here?”

“Jane.” Eric glanced around. Ah, there was the look. The worry that someone would spot him. Well, fuck that. We were way past that now.

“Eric,” I responded. “Where are you going?”

He tugged on the gloves again. Again, I didn’t release them.

“Home,” he said through his teeth.

“Home? Home?” I yanked on the gloves, but this time he wouldn’t let go. “Listen, I know last night was a lot. But I thought—those tickets, Eric. The lock of hair. They all meant something to me. Didn’t they—didn’t they mean something to you too?”

I hated the way I sounded. Pathetic. Pleading. Like my entire life’s happiness hinged on a man, of all things. It didn’t, but I didn’t like feeling as if he had my heart cupped in those cold hands, and with one squeeze, he could break it.

He looked at me for a long time, long enough for the silence to settle around us like the snow, for the sound of voices in Harvard Square to filter back to us. His grip on the gloves tightened, but he didn’t release them. Neither did I.

“It did mean something,” he admitted finally. “But I’m sorry. Jane, I can’t do this with you right now. I thought I could, but I just can’t.”

“You can’t do this? I’m pretty sure it’s already done,” I said bitterly. “Unless that’s the point. You worked as hard as you fucking could over the past few weeks to screw the crazy-haired girl with the weird clothes. You broke down every barrier I had until, what? You got what you wanted? Break the purple-haired freak for some fun before finding some pearl-clutching heiress to pair up with?”

Eric shook his head helplessly, gray eyes widening. “No, Jane, wait…it’s not you, I swear. It’s me, it’s—I—”

“‘It’s not you, it’s me’?” I parroted cruelly. “I might only be twenty-two, but come on, Eric. Even I’m tired of that stupid line.”

“Jane, I—look, if you want to know the truth, I just got out of a relationship before coming to Boston, okay? I thought I was ready to move on, but maybe I’m not.”

“You just got out?” I asked. “How long ago?”

“A year and a half,” he admitted.

“You just got out of a relationship a year and a half ago?”

He opened and closed his mouth a few times, but then, slowly, nodded. “I—it was a hard breakup. I swear, Jane, I just need some space, a few days, maybe a couple of weeks. I’ll come back around, I promise.”

“A few days? A few weeks?” I was repeating everything he said like a goddamn myna bird, but I couldn’t help it. I was too shocked. Who was this person?

“Jane, I swear to God, I’m not trying to hurt you.”

“Wow,” I replied. “I must have been quite the thrilling fucking chase for you to go after it for a month, you fucking lab experiment.”

“Jane, come on…”

But I was done listening. I dropped the gloves, not even caring when the sudden release caused Eric to stumble back a few steps.

One tired line after another. Why couldn’t he just be honest? Say what was so plain to me: babe, I’m just not that into you. We had some fun, and now it’s over.

As excuse after excuse poured from his sorry, stupid mouth, I swiped a layer of snow off the bannister of my building, packing it in my hands meditatively. And then without thinking, I turned and hurled the snowball directly into his face.

“Hey!” Eric shouted. “What the hell!”

“You’re all the same,” I snapped. “Just want to fuck and run. But you know what? At least the others were honest. They didn’t even feign like they wanted something more than sex. No sweet-talking, no playing house. They just wanted sex. You want to break hearts too. Well, you know what, you fucking sorry excuse for a lab experiment? You can’t have mine. Not now. Not ever.”

I threw another handful of snow at him, then another, and another, until my hands were freezing, and he was too busy dodging snowballs to offer any more excuses or cries of innocence.

Except maybe one.

“Jane!” he cried, though the layer of white muted his shout. “I’m sorry!”

I let the door slam behind me. I no longer cared.