She wore her heart on her sleeve. Anyone who knew her knew that.
When she was happy or angry or furious or thoughtful or resigned, all it would take is one small glance at her face and people would know. A furled brow, a rolled eye, an open smile read like lines in a book, clear as day. She hated that she was so transparent, but it had its uses – people knew immediately when she was bothered, when she was exasperated, and when she was content. She didn't have to tell them because they already knew.
So when he asked, "I don't know, what do you think?" she wanted to scream and laugh at the same time. Could he not see? After years of being best friends, after four months of fucking, did he not know her well enough to know what she was thinking?
Any time she schooled her face into a mask of disinterestedness, flashing lights and whirling alarms should have been set off in his head. It was a face she reserved for bad news, for emotional walls. It was a glass box of disillusionment. No emotion meant every bit as much as over zealous emotion.
I don't know, what do you think?
His words rang in her head, echoing between her ears and reverberating in the cavern of her mouth. How dare you, she wanted to shout. How dare you make me tell you what you should already know? But instead, she looked away, squinting into the distance, out across the forest and the lake and the mountains and said, "Look, I knew that I was just some rebound going into this – I'm not surprised that you don't want to see me any more. I mean, we're still friends."
She wanted him to react, wanted him to say that he did care about her, really, but just blah blah blah, some lame excuse, anything. But he just nodded, seemingly satisfied with her statement. She waited out the awkward silence for as long as she thought was polite, and then told him she had to finish some essay from some class at the library.
She rose, brushed the dirt off of her skirt, and quipped, "If I wasn't sick, I'd do something cute, like kiss you on the cheek." He didn't hear the bitterness or the finality, but instead opened his arms for a last, goodbye hug, mumbling, "C'mere."
She went to him too quickly – hooking her arms up under his, pressing her face into the solidness of his shoulder – and hugged him a fraction of a second too long. And then it was over; she stepped back from him further than was necessary, plastered a fake grin to her face and managed a short "see you around, Ron," all without looking him in the eye.