Inside the door,

Trey drops our backpacks

on the floor,

and reaches for me

as if he’s grown

an extra pair of hands.

They’re everywhere-

at my buttons,

fiddling with my zipper.

I push him away.

“Stop it, Trey.

We can’t do this.

I can’t do this.

I’m sorry.”

Trey goes stone-still,

then drops his hands

to his sides.

His eyes go glacial.

“I’m sorry,” I repeat.

“Whatever.

I need to hit the shower.

You know where the door is.”

“But Trey-”

“Go run hot and cold

somewhere else.”

It’s me.

I must’ve done

something wrong,

not made myself clear.

I mean, he loves me, right?

So it shouldn’t matter

if we’re not together

like that.

Maybe if I just

explain it to him right.

I’ll try again, tonight.

He won’t return

my texts, or phone calls.

It’s all I can do

not to wait for him

at the gym

after basketball practice.

I just want to ask

what happened to him loving me?

Why can’t we still be

together?

I don’t understand.

He said I was his girl.

He said he was my man.

Days disappear in a haze

of Shakespeare, career fairs,

pop quizzes, history homework,