“She’s not,” I say, giving in. “She’s not coming home at all.”

Aaron smiles and moves his mouth from my neck to my jawline. “I think those might be the hottest words in the English language.”

Something hard and metal is digging into my lower back: the spine, probably, of the pullout couch. I try to ignore it, try and get into the mood, whatever that means. (I’ve never understood that phrase; it makes it sound as if moods are something you choose, like putting on a pair of pants. Dara and I once decided that “sex-mood” would be a leather romper, skintight. But most of the time I just feel like a big pair of sweatpants.)

But when Aaron shifts his weight, leans into me with a knee between my legs, I let out a sharp cry.

“What?” He sits back, instantly apologetic. “Sorry—did I hurt you?”

“No.” Now I’m embarrassed and scoot backward, instinctively covering my breasts with an arm. “Sorry. Something was digging into my back. It was nothing.”

Aaron smiles. His hair, true black and silky, has grown out. He brushes it away from his eyes. “Don’t cover up,” he says, reaching out and easing my arm away from my chest. “You’re beautiful.”

“You’re biased,” I say. Aaron’s the beautiful one. I love how tall he is, and how small he makes me feel; I love the way basketball has defined his shoulders and arms. I love the color of his skin, a cream-gold, like light shining through autumn leaves; I love the shape of his eyes and the way his hair grows silky-straight.

I love so many individual things, points of a compass, dots on a diagram. Yet somehow when it comes to filling in the big picture, to loving him, I don’t. Or I can’t. I’m not sure which, and I don’t know that it matters.

Aaron reaches out and grabs my waist, leaning backward and drawing me onto his lap simultaneously, so I’m the one on top. Then he’s kissing me again, exploring my tongue carefully with his, running his hands lightly up and down my back, touching me the way he does everything: with cautious optimism, as if I’m an animal who might startle away from his touch. I try to relax, try to stop my brain from firing out stupid images and thoughts, but suddenly all I can focus on is the TV, which is still on, and still replaying old episodes of some competitive grocery shopping show.

I pull away and just for a second, Aaron lets his frustration show.

“Sorry,” I say. “I’m just not sure I can do this to a soundtrack of The Price Chopper.”

Aaron reaches for the remote, which is lying on the floor next to our shirts. “Do you want to change it?”

“No.” I start to ease off him. “I mean that’s not . . . I’m just not sure I can do this. Right now.”

He catches me by my belt before I can fully push off his lap. He’s smiling, but his eyes are even darker than usual, and I can tell he’s trying hard not to be annoyed. “Come on, Nick,” he says. “We never get to be alone.”

“What do you mean? We’re always alone.”

He sits up on his elbows, shaking his hair from his eyes. “Not really,” he says. “Not like this.” He half smiles. “I feel like you’re always running away from me.” He puts a hand on my waist and leans back again, pulling me down on top of him.

“What do you want?” I blurt out, before I can stop myself. He hesitates, his lips a fraction away from mine, and pulls away to look at me.

“Everyone thinks we had sex on Founders’ Night, you know,” he says.

My heart starts going jackrabbit hard in my chest. “So?”

“Soooo . . .” He kisses my neck again, progressing slowly up toward my ear. “If everyone thinks we did it anyway . . .”

“You can’t be serious.” This time I sit up entirely, moving off his lap.

He exhales, hard. “Only a quarter serious,” he says, scooting up on the couch so he can sit cross-legged. He rests his elbows on his knees and runs the back of a hand against my thigh. “You still haven’t told me what happened to you on Founders’ Night.” He’s still smiling that little half smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “The mysterious disappearing girlfriend.” His hand moves up my thigh; he’s teasing me, making a joke, still trying to get me in the mood. “The magical vanishing girl—”

“I can’t do this.” I don’t even know I’m going to say the words before I have, but instantly I feel a sense of relief. It’s like I’ve been carrying something hard and heavy behind my ribs and now it’s gone, released, removed.

Aaron sighs and withdraws his hand. “That’s all right,” he says. “We can just watch TV or something.”

“No.” I close my eyes, take a deep breath, think of Aaron’s hands and smile and the way he looks on the basketball court, fluid and dark and beautiful. “I mean, I can’t do this. You and me. Anymore.”

Aaron jerks backward as if I’ve reached out and hit him. “What?” He starts to shake his head. “No. No way.”

“Yes.” Now the terrible feeling is back, this time settled in my stomach, a hard knot of guilt and regret. What the hell is wrong with me? “I’m sorry.”

“Why?” His face is so open in that moment, so raw and vulnerable, a part of me wants to reach out and hug him, kiss him, tell him I was kidding. But I can’t. I sit there with my hands in my lap, my fingers numb and alien-feeling.

“I just don’t think this is right,” I say. “I—I’m not the girl for you.”