The Russian Judge Gives It a Two
MAX
"Come here." Jaren's sitting on the side of his bed, patting the space next to him. I sit, leaving maybe six inches between us. He bridges the gap, sliding closer. "Hey."
"Hey."
"You seem nervous."
"I'm not nervous. I'm—" What am I? "Calibrating."
He laughs softly. "Calibrating?"
"Processing. Assessing variables. Running diagnostics—"
Jaren kisses me. It's different from the other times.
Less brief, more intent. His hand comes up to cup my jaw, thumb stroking my cheek, and…
Okay. Okay. This is good. This is what people do.
I kiss back and try very hard not to mentally document the engineering specifications for optimal kissing angles.
He pulls back slightly. "Still calibrating?"
"Getting there."
"Good." He kisses me again, deeper this time, and my brain does the thing where it tries to analyze everything; the pressure, the angle, the warm weight of his hand sliding to my hip. Should it feel this systematic? Is systematic normal? Is—
"Max." His voice is warm against my mouth. "Stop thinking so hard."
"How did you know I was thinking?"
"You get this look. Like you're solving equations." He shifts back against the headboard and pulls me with him, and I end up straddling his lap, which is definitely more intimate. Our faces level now, his hands settling on my hips, thumbs tracing small circles through my shirt. "This okay?"
"Yeah. Yes. Definitely okay."
He smiles and kisses me again, and I try to shut my brain off and just feel it. The warmth of his hands. The solid presence of him beneath me. The way his hair is soft when I touch it. This is good. This is what I wanted.
Then his hand slides under the hem of my shirt, fingers splaying across the skin of my lower back, and every muscle in my body locks up.
Wrong wrong wrong wrong. I jerk back so fast I lose my balance, my knee catches his thigh, and my momentum carries me sideways off his lap and face-first into his comforter.
"Oof." Smooth, Max. Very smooth. Ten out of ten dismount. Even the Russian judge would be justified in giving me a low score.
I push up onto my elbows, face burning. Jaren's sitting very still with both hands raised like he's afraid to move. "What happened? Are you okay? Was that too fast?"
“I, no? Maybe? I don't know." I scramble upright and put distance between us. "You didn't do anything wrong. I just—" I don't have any way to say what I’m thinking that ends well.
"Okay." He's watching me carefully, concerned but not hurt. "Do you want to talk about it?"
"I don't know what to talk about!" The words burst out.
"You're sitting there being calm and not making this weird, and you didn't laugh when I fell, and your first instinct was to check if I was okay, and you still look…
You just—" I gesture helplessly at him. "You're not even annoyed!
What guy isn't annoyed right now?! You should be kicking me out.
Where's the yelling? The door slam? This is very inconsiderate of you. "
"Max."
"—and I should want this! I should want—" I flap my hands between us. "—all of this! But something's wrong, and I don't know what, and I can't debug it because there's no error code for feelings—"
"Max, breathe." I breathe. Or try to. It comes out shaky. Jaren's still sitting against the headboard, hands resting loosely on his knees. Not reaching for me. Giving me space. "You want to stop," he says quietly.
It's not a question. "I think…" My voice cracks. "I think I have to? And I'm so sorry because you're amazing and this isn't… Crap, please believe me when I say it's not you, it's me."
I said the cliché. Oh my god, I actually said the breakup cliché. What's next, "we can still be friends"? "I need to find myself"? Should I tell him I'm moving to Peru to raise alpacas? I want the floor to swallow me whole.
Jaren's quiet for a moment. Then, "It's okay, Max."
"It's not okay! You're—" My hands are still flailing at him.
"—you're perfect! On paper, this should work!
You check every box! You're hot, like, so frickin' hot, and smart and nice and you actually text back instead of leaving me on read for three days, which statistically is rare, I've done the math—"
"Max—"
"—but it doesn't feel right, and I don't know why!
" I'm standing now. Pacing. I can't sit still when my brain's doing this.
"It should feel right! There should be a zing or sparks or whatever people talk about in movies, but there's nothing, and that's not fair to you because you deserve someone who feels the zing—"
"Hey." He waits until I look at him. "I'm not going anywhere. Slow down. Can we talk?"
He pats the bed next to him, not where I was sitting before, but on the neutral edge. I sit. He's quiet for a moment, and when he speaks, his voice is careful and kind. "I appreciate you being honest with me. I know that wasn't easy."
"You do?"
"Yeah." He has a small, sad smile. "I mean, it sucks, I'm not gonna lie. I was hoping this would work out. But if you're not feeling it, you're not feeling it. You can't engineer chemistry."
"But why am I not feeling it?" I turn to face him. "That's what I don't understand. Everything should be working. All the variables are optimal. The equation should balance."
"Sometimes it doesn't." He shrugs, easy and resigned. "Doesn't mean either of us did anything wrong."
"You didn't. You definitely didn't." The guilt lands hard. I'm quick to reassure him. "I feel awful."
"Don't." He looks at me steadily, no anger, no resentment, just a kind of quiet acceptance that somehow makes it worse. "Sometimes people don't click, Max. It's okay."
"And now you're cheering me up." I let my head fall into my hands. "Why are you so decent when I'm the one who can't feel the zing?"
"I want the zing too," he says. "I want someone who feels it when I touch them. Someone who doesn't have to force it. That's not a guilt trip. I just mean, this is okay. We're okay."
The guilt crashes through me anyway. "I'm sorry," I say. Quieter this time.
"I know." He stands and holds out a hand. "Come on, let me drive you home."
"No… no, you don't have to." I'm on my feet too fast, already moving toward the door.
"I'll get a rideshare. You've been so kind and I just…
I need to go. You're going to find someone who feels the zing, and they're going to be so lucky—" I'm in the hallway now, still talking, still moving backward. "Thank you. I'm sorry. Thank you."
Jaren's standing in his doorway, hands in his pockets, that small, sad, accepting smile on his face. "Take care of yourself, Max."
"You too." I turn and practically run for the stairs.
The common room is still loud: video games, laughter, someone doing something that involves a lot of cheering. Normal frat house chaos. I slip out the front door before anyone can catch me.
The cold air hits like a slap. January in California isn't actually cold, but right now it feels like it.
I order a rideshare with shaking fingers, seven minutes away, and walk to the end of the block, away from the frat house, away from Jaren's kindness and those hazel eyes that should have made me feel more than this is nice.
What is wrong with me?
I found someone perfect. Someone who checked every box, who wanted me, who was patient and decent even when I fell off his bed.
And I ran away because his hand on my skin felt wrong.
The rideshare pulls up. I climb in, give the driver a weak smile that probably looks more like a grimace based on how fast he looks away, and slouch against the window. My phone buzzes almost immediately.
Jaren
Hey. Wanted to make sure you're okay. No hard feelings. You're a great guy, Max. You'll find your zing.
I stare at it. Tears prick at the corners of my eyes. I don't text back. I don't know what to say, don't know what any of it means, don't know why the kindest, most patient person I've dated makes me feel nothing, and the one person I can't stop thinking about is…
The phone goes face-down on the seat. Outside the window, the campus lights blur past. My reflection stares back at me; face blotchy, hair a disaster from Jaren's fingers. I look like I've been mauled by a very polite, very understanding bear.
Shouldn't there be something I understand by now? Sad, maybe. Relieved. Instead, there's just this low, restless wrongness I can't locate. Jaren's hand on my back and every muscle locking up. Wrong, wrong, wrong. But why? He didn't do anything wrong. I like him. I wanted to want him.
Why does it feel like I failed?
I think about every touch that's felt right. Someone grabbing my arm to steer me out of the way. A hand on my shoulder. Falling asleep on the couch next to… The rideshare drops me at the geek house, and I'm through the door before I can think about what I'm doing.
Leo's room. I need Leo.