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I didn’t open it. I sat down on the carpet on my side of the door, put my back against the wood and my knees up under my T-shirt, and said, “Say it again.”
“Which part?”
“The sorry part.”
“I’m sorry, Dani.” Her voice came through the wood close and low, as though she’d turned to speak against the door. “I mean it. And I’m not only sorry about tonight. I’ve been a cow to you for two years.”
“Why?”
A long pause. The carpet rustled. I imagined her on the other side, tall, folded up on the floor, fiddling with that star behind her ear.
“Because the second I met you, I wanted to be on your team,” she said. “And the only way I know how to want something is to compete for it.”
I didn’t say anything. My heart was pounding so hard I thought she might hear it through the wood. My thighs were pressed together, and I was aware of my body in a way I really hadn’t asked to be.
“Dani?” she said. “Are you still there?”
“I’m here.”
“Are you angry?”
“No,” I said. “I’m turned on. It’s very annoying.”
A silence. Then, softly, so softly I almost didn’t catch it: “Me too.”
The hallway light flickered under the door. I could see her fingers, long and ringed, lying on the carpet in the gap, close enough to touch.
I could talk her through exactly what I wanted, with a door between us. Or I could be sensible, say goodnight and be on the early train.