Текст книги "Roomies"
Автор книги: Claire Adams
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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 16 страниц)
Chapter Nineteen
Exaltation with Just a Pinch of Denial
Leila
It’s my last day at the office and nobody but Annabeth could give a crap.
Well, that’s not entirely true. Kidman did offer to go down on me as a going away present. The mental picture makes me vomit a little in my mouth, but hey, it’s the thought that counts, right?
Right now, I’m a little over halfway done with Atkinson’s final laundry list of menial tasks. I just finished walking his lucky ferret—yeah, the man has a ferret which he not only considers lucky, but actually brings into the office whenever there’s an important meeting—and am now on my way to see if I can, “figure out what the hell is wrong with that fax machine.”
I have absolutely no skills with anything technical like this, but my feeble attempts should buy me a good half hour before he finally tells me to just call maintenance.
I tried calling maintenance first once when his monitor started flickering.
That was the day I found out that Atkinson, though otherwise intimidating, screams like a girl when you get him really, really mad.
Tonight is going to be Dane and my second attempt at an actual date.
After he told me what happened with Wrigley outside his new executive chef’s building earlier today, though, it’s apparent that we’re going to have to get a little creative.
That is, if this interminable day ever comes to an end.
After fifteen minutes spent literally poking and prodding Atkinson’s fax machine, I decide to give up a little early and let maintenance deal with it.
My next stop is to collect the third page of Atkinson’s last memo from everyone on this floor and replace it with a new copy.
I’m not doing this because there was some sort of new policy or significant change. I’m doing this because in line thirty-six—that is, fourth paragraph from the top, second sentence—he inserted a hyphen where it didn’t belong.
The offending pair was “boiling-over.”
Never to fear, though, soon everyone will have the copy which rightfully has the phrase as “boiling over,” and I am perfectly confident that no one would ever have noticed. Even if they did, I am certain nobody would have cared.
As I look at the clock, though, my mood lightens.
Only a few more hours and I will forever be free of this cluster fuck.
(I think Dane is starting to rub off on me.)
I hand out the third page of the memo to everyone in the office, making sure to collect the old versions. Atkinson will check my work when I’m done.
This is not speculation.
Kidman’s is the last one, and I motion to Annabeth that it’s time for the fireworks.
She creeps to the side of Mr. Kidman’s doorway. I knock and let myself in.
“Mr. Kidman,” I start, “Mr. Atkinson has asked me to replace page three of today’s memo. Do you happen to have it handy?”
“I’m sure I can find it here somewhere,” he says. “You know, I think I must have tucked it down the front of my pants. Why don’t you be a dear and help me pull it out?”
“You know,” I tell him, “I saved your page for last. Would you like to know why?”
He straightens his tie and says, “Because you’re finally ready to get that raise?” he asks. To ensure there’s no miscommunication, he grabs his crotch.
“No,” I tell him. “I saved yours for last because I finally did something that I really, really should have done a long time ago.”
“What’s that?” he asks.
“I learned the finer points of your particular severance plan and contract with the company.”
“Oh?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I tell him. “Apparently, it’s a pretty standard document. I talked to one of the lawyers here, just to make sure—”
“Wait,” he says, “how did you get access to that?”
“I’m an intern,” I tell him. “I work with important papers all the time. Anyway,” I continue, “it turns out that you only get severance if you’re not fired for cause. While it is true that whoever drew this up gave you a lot of latitude regarding what constitutes cause, in section 18c of the agreement, it clearly states that sexual harassment, as it is against both state and federal civil law, is cause for immediate termination, forfeiture on your part of severance rights, profit-sharing, and about ten other things I didn’t really take the time to look over.”
“That’s not right,” he says. “I don’t remember anything about any section 18c.”
“Oh, Miss Lozano!” I call out.
A moment later, my gorgeous friend comes into the room, carrying a folder. “Why, yes, Miss Tyler?”
“Did you happen to grab Mr. Kidman’s employment contract with this company?”
“Why, yes I did, Miss Tyler,” she says.
She hands me the folder.
“Thank you, Miss Lozano,” I tell her and she leaves the room.
I open the file and toss it onto the letch’s desk.
“Don’t worry, we’ve taken the liberty of highlighting the appropriate paragraphs,” I tell him.
“Wha—Why would you do this?”
“I think a better question is why would you do this to us?” I ask.
“This is all he said, she said,” he scoffs. “Nobody’s going to believe you or your friend. I’ve been with this company for—Mrs. Beck,” he says, interrupting himself.
I turn to follow Kidman’s gaze.
There, standing in the doorway is a tall brunette, dressed in a black pantsuit.
This is my going away present from Annabeth. And to think, I didn’t get her anything.
“I understand that’s no longer a problem?” Mrs. Beck asks, looking at me.
I take the pen out of my pocket and hand it to her. She presses the little button and the recording isn’t playing for ten seconds before his career is over.
“It seems you’ve been caught on tape,” Mrs. Beck says. “How you’ve gotten away with this shameful behavior for so long is nothing short of astounding.”
“I have a contract!” he shouts, rising from his desk. “You can fire me, but I get—”
“You do have a contract,” she interrupts. “It is a contract which you have violated in such an egregious way to do substantial harm to this company and its employees. As soon as these women are done with you, rest assured we’ll be coming for whatever’s left. That is, if they haven’t taken everything.”
“What women?” he asks.
Right on cue, Annabeth calls, “Ladies!” from the other side of the doorway and over the next couple of minutes, every woman, assistant level or lower, every woman this on this floor comes in, hands a pen to Mrs. Beck and walks back out again.
I’ve never enjoyed watching a grown man cry so thoroughly.
I’m about to head out the door, but realize that I’ve forgotten something.
“Sorry,” I say to Mrs. Beck as I make my way back into the room.
I walk to Kidman’s desk and remove page three from Atkinson’s memo. While it’s clear enough that Kidman’s not going to need any part of it, Atkinson was adamant that I retrieve every copy with the extraneous hyphen.
The things we choose to care about.
I walk back out of the room, expecting—not applause or anything—but some kind of acknowledgment that we’ve finally brought the bastard down. True to form, though, everyone’s back to work and no one but Annabeth even notices my presence.
* * *
The rest of my work day is spent finishing up favors for Atkinson. For as much commotion as there was in Kidman’s office only a few hours ago, I leave the building without speaking to anyone.
When I get home, the apartment is empty.
Dane should be home by now, but that’s all right. Now I’ll have a chance to take a quick shower and change out of my work clothes before he gets back.
Once the water’s pouring over me, I’m finding it difficult to imagine getting out voluntarily. I clean myself, rinse myself and then just enjoy the water.
I start to fantasize about Dane coming home, finding me in the shower. We have dinner reservations at l’Iris, pretty much the only place either of us believes we might have a chance avoiding a run-in with Wrigley, but I wouldn’t mind pretending that the shower is a waterfall and that the dim light over the sink is a sunrise.
Maybe it’s not my exact fantasy, but it is close enough for now.
I stay in the shower until the water starts to turn cold.
Maybe he came in and I just didn’t hear him.
I wrap one towel around my midsection, another around my hair, and wipe my feet on the rug before leaving the bathroom. It may not be an imagined waterfall at sunrise, but he can still unwrap me before we go to dinner.
I could live with that.
When he doesn’t come home before my exposed skin has air-dried, I start to get a little nervous.
He didn’t mention any plans today, and he assured me that he’d gotten out of work.
I walk back into the bathroom and finish drying myself before checking my phone.
I’m sure it’s nothing. I’m sure there’s a perfectly innocent and reasonable explanation, but he’s not answering his phone.
When the call goes to voicemail, I hang up and try it again, walking around the apartment as it rings, thinking maybe he simply forgot it. If it’s here, the ringer’s turned off.
Now I’m really starting to get worried.
Wrigley told me to keep my head down, that she didn’t want me to get involved. I knew it was a threat, but could she really have done something to him?
I’m just being silly and I know it, but still, there’s that heavy pull telling me that something’s very wrong.
Running out of places to look, I find the number for l’Iris and call it.
“l’Iris, please hold.”
I sit on the couch, but immediately get back up again. I don’t really care how long they have me on hold; I can’t relax until I know that Dane is all right.
A minute or two passes before the line goes active again.
“I apologize for the wait, we don’t have any open reservations for tonight, but we might be able to squeeze you in sometime—”
“Is Dane there?” I ask. “This is his roommate Leila. He hasn’t been home, and I’m starting to get a little worried about him.”
“Dane?” the man with the obviously fake accent asks.
“Dane,” I repeat. “Dane Paulson.”
“Ah, monsieur Paulson,” the man says. “I will check. Please hold.”
I’ve really got to tell Dane to do something about fake accent man. It’s really annoying.
“Yes, it seems that Mr. Paulson has the night off tonight,” the man says. “I can leave a message here for him if you would like.”
“That won’t be necessary,” I tell him and hang up.
Because there is absolutely nowhere else I know to look, I try calling his phone again, but this time it just goes straight to voicemail.
“Dane, it’s Leila. You’re still not home, and I’ve been trying to call you. Just give me a call back and let me know that you’re all right, will you?”
I hang up, feeling completely helpless.
For as much as I care for him, there’s still so much that I don’t know about Dane. If he has friends outside of work, he’s never mentioned them.
Come to think of it, he’s never actually referred to any of his coworkers as friends. When he refers to them at all, and it’s a rare occasion that he does, he never has a single nice thing to say about any of them.
Maybe he and I are just too different to go on pretending that this is going to work.
Maybe he really should be with that lunatic.
I push those thoughts aside, though, as I really don’t know where he is or what’s happening.
Realizing that there’s no remaining scenario I can think of that would lead to a pleasant lovemaking session, I finally put my clothes on. Once they’re on, I realize I can’t just sit here.
I write a note and set it on the table.
It reads simply: “Dane, if you see this note before you see me, call. You’ve got me pretty freaked out here, and I’m out looking for you. Leila”
I gather my keys then double and triple check that I have my phone with me. With that, I make my way to the door, but that’s when I hear it.
It’s Dane. He’s in the hallway.
He’s singing.
I throw the door open to find him standing there with a palm full of loose change, fingering his way through it.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Leila!” he exclaims. “I’ve missed you so fucking much. I was just looking for my keys.”
“Come inside,” I tell him.
He stumbles into the apartment, bumping his hand on the countertop as he enters, spilling all but a few coins from his hand.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m a little drunk.”
“No shit. Where the hell were you? I was about to go out looking for you.”
“You see,” he says, grinning and slurring his words, “this is why I love you so much. You care about people. You’re a good person, Leila.”
“Yeah,” I tell him. “You’re kind of an asshole. Where were you?”
“Now don’t be mad,” he slurs.
“I don’t see much chance of that,” I tell him.
“Good,” he says, completely misunderstanding what I just told him. “I was with Wriggle—Wriggsley—Wrig—”
“Wrigley?” I ask. “Why?”
“After the way she was following me today, I wanted to figure out a way to get her to leave me alone, ‘cause I don’t like her like that anymore.”
I really don’t see any version of this story making things better.
“So I called her up,” he says, “and I told her that I wanted to talk to her.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” he answers. “We met up for drinks, and I told her that no matter what, she had to stay away, ‘cause I don’t like the way she’s been following me around. It’s not fucking cool.”
I’m getting pretty sick of Drunk Dane, but maybe he actually accomplished something on his way down the bottle.
“And?”
“And what?” he asks. “Oh! Right,” he continues. “I told her that I wanted her to leave us alone, but she said I was the one who called her. I guess that’s true, but she told me that she was planting seeds and I didn’t want them to grow.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” I ask.
“I think I—” he hiccups, and I swear to all that is holy, if he pukes on the floor, I’m going to get really pissed.
“You think you what?” I ask.
He laughs. “That’s a funny sentence.”
“How much did you have to drink?” I ask him. “It doesn’t look like you two just got together for a casual drink or two.”
“I’m not sure,” he says, “but I think it was a lot.”
“I’d say that’s a strong possibility.”
“You’re mad!” he whispers. “I thought you said you weren’t going to get mad.”
“That’s not what I said, you jackass, now did you figure something out or not?”
“She told me that she wouldn’t follow me around anymore,” he says. “So that’s a good thing. She also told me to pass along an apology on her behalf. She said the two of you talked a while ago and she said she came across kind of pretty rude.”
“That’s it?” I ask. “It’s over? She’s out of the picture?”
“She wasn’t in my picture,” he says. “I love you, Leilal.”
It’s close enough to a kind moment that my urge to punch him in the nose slowly fades, but that doesn’t mean I’m happy.
“But that’s it?” I ask. “Did she say anything else?”
“Yeah,” he says. “She told me that it’s not nice to call someone up just to tell them to leave you alone.” He leans toward me, his hand to the side of his mouth as if there’s anyone in the apartment for him to keep ignorant of the sloshing sound of his words. “I didn’t care.”
Well, on the one hand, it sounds like we might finally be free to actually start our relationship without having to worry about his old one trying to creep back in. On the other hand, I don’t think I could possibly be less attracted to him than I am now.
Hopefully, that feeling passes pretty quickly. Otherwise, this has been a lot of effort for nothing.
“Do you still love me?” he asks. “I still love you.”
“Why wouldn’t you still love me?” I ask.
“I do still love you,” he says and loses his balance.
He manages to catch himself before he falls all the way to the ground, but he knocks a stack of plates off the counter in the process.
“Okay,” I tell him. “You’re taking a shower and I’m going to bring you some coffee after I get all this cleaned up.”
“You’re so good to me,” he says. “You’re fucking amazing.”
“I must be,” I sigh as I put one of his arms around my shoulders and walk him to the bathroom.
All things considered, the only thing he really did wrong was got too drunk.
I’ve done that.
I don’t know why I’m so angry with him, but the feeling’s not going away.
We get into the bathroom and I stuff him in the shower and tell him to take off his clothes.
“All right,” he says, a grin working its way up his face. “Hey,” he whispers.
“What?” I ask, leaning toward him.
“If you jump in the shower with me, we can pretend it’s a waterfall.”
With that, I’m done talking to him.
I turn on the shower, hoping that the jolt of the cold water brings him back to a more tolerable version of himself, and I walk out of the room.
It’s a miracle that neither of us got cut on the shards of ceramic plate scattered all over the kitchen floor.
The dishes were nothing fancy, but that doesn’t make me any less angry. My only consolation is that it doesn’t take long to pick up the remnants.
I can hear Dane in the bathroom.
It’s unclear whether he’s singing or just talking really loud, but I could do without hearing that voice for a little while, so I walk over to the television, fully intending to crank the volume up and drown his voice out entirely.
That’s when I hear what he’s singing.
I step into the bathroom.
“…Leila, Leila, Leila, Leila…”
The guy’s a mess, but damn it, he’s my mess.
He’s drenched and I know how cold the water is, but he’s just sitting there on the shower floor, arms open wide, eyes closed, singing my name.
It’s pretty hard to stay mad at him.
Chapter Twenty
Rough
Dane
If the eyes are the windows to the soul, then the sunlight creeping through my window is hell.
I don’t think I’ve ever been that drunk in my life.
My only comfort from this massive hangover is the soft, warm body lying next to me.
With my eyes as near closed as I can keep them while still managing to see what I’m doing, I lean over and kiss Leila on the forehead. She takes a deep breath and continues to sleep.
I remember meeting with Wrigley yesterday.
To say that I’m confident in trusting her to leave us alone would be a lie, but at least she put forward the lip service.
I get up and stagger my way into the kitchen. Now would be the perfect time to have one of those coffee machines that starts brewing at a preset time, but that’s a luxury for a different morning.
There’s a bottle of ibuprofen on one of the shelves in the cupboard, but I’m not ready for the physical effort it’s going to take to reach for it just yet.
For now, I remove the old filter from the coffee maker and replace it with a new one. I don’t bother measuring the grounds I put in the filter.
It’s a minute before I realize that a coffee maker requires water.
I open the cupboard and grab the ibuprofen.
There’s a stir in my bedroom, and I have wild and wondrous fantasies of Leila coming out here and offering to make the coffee while I’m allowed to lie down on the couch, but it doesn’t happen that way.
As it happens, Leila comes out of the room, her hair beautifully messy and her eyes hardly more open than my own.
“Morning,” she says and plops down on the couch.
The television is on a moment later, and I’m left with this herculean task to conquer alone.
Somehow, I manage to put all the ingredients in all the right places and get the pot of coffee going, but there’s no way I’m going to be able to do much else if I can’t reign this fucking hangover in a bit.
There’s a bottle of vodka in the freezer, but I have a feeling Leila’s not going to be particularly understanding of my situation. The last thing I clearly remember is the icy shower she dumped me into.
Things must have worked out all right, though. Last night was the first night she slept in my room.
“Hungry?” I ask her.
“Meh,” she answers. I know that’s a clear signal one way or another, but I left my decoder ring in my other pants.
“How about waffles?” I ask.
It’s the perfect crime: I get to take a few swigs of vodka to dial back my hangover and Leila’s pacified and distracted by waffles.
“Meh,” she answers again.
Oh well.
I open the freezer and grab the vodka bottle before I even dream of touching the waffles.
This is a covert operation.
If I took the waffles out first, she’d be bound to suspect that I was up to something when I didn’t immediately close the freezer.
The vodka is cold enough that I don’t taste it for a couple of seconds, just long enough for the worst of it to pass.
I leave the bottle on the countertop. There’s no reason to put it back before I’m done with the waffles.
“Butter? Syrup?” I ask.
“I’m not that hungry,” she says.
Myself, I’m fairly certain that if I were to try and eat something right now, I’d just refund it a few minutes later.
“Okay.”
The coffee’s done, but I take another swig of vodka before I bother doing anything with that information.
“Hair of the dog?” Leila asks.
I don’t know why I still try to get away with anything with Leila around.
“Yeah,” I tell her. “I’m dying over here. This hangover is murder.”
“I would imagine,” she says inscrutably.
One more swig and the vodka goes back into the freezer, right along with the unopened box of waffles.
“So,” Leila starts, “do you remember anything from last night?”
“Yeah,” I tell her. “After the shower it’s a little fuzzy, but I’m sure with some minor discussion the rest of it will come back.”
“Well,” she says, turning around on the couch to face me, “you begged me not to move to New Jersey.”
“That sounds like something I’d do,” I tell her, pulling two coffee mugs from the cupboard. “That sounds exactly like something I’d do. I both love you and hate New Jersey.”
“Yeah, that came up during our discussion,” she says. “Do you remember where the conversation went from there?”
I’m right in that in-between area where the alcohol is starting to hit, but the hangover’s still overpowering it and I want to stick my hand into a running garbage disposal just to take the focus away from my throbbing head.
“I’m sorry,” I tell her. “It hasn’t come back to me yet.”
“Do you think it’s going to, or do you just want me to tell you?”
“Tell me.”
I have both mugs filled with coffee before she considers responding.
“It seems that you have a bit of a problem with Mike,” she says.
This can’t be a good turn of events.
“Really?” I ask. “What did I say?”
“You said it was kind of messed up that you’re doing everything to keep your past relationships away from ours while I’m still hanging around with Mike.”
“I said that?” I ask, not sure whether to be proud or nervous.
“Yeah,” she says. “At one point, you called him a douche nozzle. It was a mean sentiment, but I have to admit it did get me to laugh.”
“Sorry about that.”
“I think we need to talk,” she says.
I bring her coffee as a peace offering, but it doesn’t seem to have the magical powers with which I had so intently tried to imbue it.
“Mike is my best friend,” she says. “I get that you’ve got a little jealousy going on, but he and I have known each other for a really long time, and I can’t just stop being friends with him because you’re feeling threatened.”
“Now it’s coming back to me,” I say.
“We’re still talking about it,” Leila rejoins and my devious plan to get out of having this conversation falls on its face.
“All right,” I tell her. “Do you understand why I might be a little uncomfortable with that? Of the two times I’ve met the guy, the first time, I walked in on the two of you making out, and the second, he ignored my existence while engrossed in looking for a place for you to live.”
“I get why you’d feel that way, but it’s not what you think,” she says.
She explains how he was feeling self-conscious about the way he kisses and that he badgered her into giving him a capsule review. I just happened to walk in at the wrong time.
The story, despite its vague familiarity, doesn’t do much to ease my concerns.
“Let’s not fight about this,” I tell her. “I get that he’s your friend. I’m uncomfortable with it, but I’ll just have to deal with that for now.”
“Yeah,” she says, “you will.”
And with that, we’re about to have our first fight.
“How would you feel if I told you I wasn’t going to stop hanging out with Wrigley, despite your feelings?”
I think it’s a pretty fair point.
Leila disagrees.
“It’s not the same thing and you know it,” she says. “I never had sex with Mike. That was the first and only—”
“You’ve never had sex with him, but I guarantee you have stronger feelings for him than I ever did for Wrigley.”
“I don’t find that hard to believe in the slightest,” she retorts. “I’m surprised you have any feelings at all the way you treat women.”
“The way I treat women?” I seethe. “In what way have I ever treated you poorly?”
“I’m not talking about me,” she says, “I’m talking about all the other ones that you drug in here in the middle of the night, never to return with the same one twice. Do you really think women appreciate that? How deluded are you?”
“I never brought anyone home under false pretenses,” I snap. “Everyone involved knew exactly what it was before it ever happened.”
“Yeah?” she asks. “Well, what is this?”
I take a breath and steady myself.
There are two options here. I could go for the quick, sharp response and I have no doubt it would feel pretty great right about now, but on the same token, that approach would probably blow up the relationship.
My other option is to try to calm this whole discussion and tell her that, despite how angry I am right now, I see my relationship with her as the most promising thing I’ve ever known.
What I really need to do is say something, because she’s just staring at me now, forming her own opinions on how I really feel and the longer I go without saying it, the less she’s going to believe whatever comes out of my mouth.
I’m still not talking.
“I don’t know,” I tell her.
“Well, that’s good to hear,” she says, getting up from the couch and trying to make a break for her bedroom.
“I love you!” I shout. “But you’re leaving and it’s not like we’re talking about some far off possibility, you’re leaving next week. How is that supposed to work? I don’t even know if I’ll be able to swing this place on my own. I want us to be together. Even sloshed out of my mind I was begging you to stay. That’s where I want this relationship to go. How about you?”
The bad news is that she’s crying now. The good news? There is no fucking good news.
“You’re right,” she bawls. “We should just end it.”
And shit just got real.
“That’s not what I’m saying,” I tell her. “I want to make this work. More than anything, I want to make this work.”
“But you’re right,” she says, “it can’t. I’m taking that job. I have to. It’s what I’ve always wanted to do. You’re here, doing what you’ve always wanted to do.”
“Leila, don’t do this. We can’t just give up on everything now. We’ve only been together for a couple of days and we’ve already fought more for this than most people do in an entire relationship.”
She pushes past me and slams the door to her room behind her.
I don’t know what else to say.
I don’t know that there’s anything else I can say.
I’m starting to wonder if I just conjured up my feelings for Leila as a way to distance myself further from Wrigley.
Even though I know it’s not true, the thought takes its toll and by the next breath, I’m walking back to the freezer.
* * *
Okay, so I’m not drunk, but I’m sure as fuck not sober either.
I’ve been lying on my bed, pissed off and torn up for I don’t know how long.
This isn’t how I want to spend what little time I have left with Leila, but I don’t know if there’s another option. She’s closing me out.
I get it. Really, I do.
It’s easier to leave if things aren’t going so well, but that doesn’t mean this has to be the end of anything.
That’s when it hits me: I should probably be talking about this with her.
I get up from the bed and take a moment to find my balance. I may be a little more inebriated than I thought.
At least I’m nowhere near as drunk as I was last night.
I set the bottle which, up until this point, had been welded to my hand, on my dresser and I open the door to my room.
Guess who’s sitting on the couch, talking to Leila as she wipes tears from her eyes.
I’ll give you one hint: it’s not me.
“Hey, Mike,” I say. “Leila, are you all right?”
“Maybe I should give you two a few minutes to talk,” Mike says and gets up from the couch.
“Thanks, Mike,” I tell him. “I appreciate that.”
He nods and walks to the kitchen. He’s hardly giving us privacy, but now really isn’t the time for me to say anything about it.
“I know what we’re both doing,” I tell her. “We’re finding reasons to be mad because we’re afraid of losing each other.”
“It doesn’t seem like either one of us have had to look very hard,” she says, wiping her nose on her shirtsleeve.
I smile at her.
“I guess you’re right,” I say. “A lot is happening with both of us right now. Maybe this wasn’t the right time to start a relationship, but I don’t regret that we did.”
Her eyes are so wide as she looks up at me.
“I don’t regret it either,” she says. “But how are we supposed to keep going when we both know it’s all going to be over in a week?”
We keep going because we care about each other.
We’ll find a way to make it work.
We keep going because we make each other feel things we’ve never really felt.
“I don’t know.”
Of all the possible combinations of words that could have come out of my mouth, that was one of the worst.
“So what are we doing?” she asks, the tears again forming in her eyes.
“We’re getting to know each other,” I tell her. “That sort of thing takes time.”
“Yeah,” she says. “But that doesn’t solve anything. We don’t have time.”
“We have a little,” I tell her. “If you’re not sick of me by the time you move, we can have more—I know I would like that.”
“Why don’t you move with me?” she asks.
And there’s the possibility I didn’t want her to realize.
“Things are only just starting to turn around at l’Iris. Wilks is still finding himself as a chef. I can’t just up and leave Jim without anyone to help,” I tell her. “He gave me a chance and kept me on when anyone else would have just fired me on the spot. I can’t walk out on him.”
“Then you’ll commute,” she says. “I found the place I want to move to. It’s got two bedrooms, one-and-a-half baths. It’s in a really good neighborhood and the rent is a fraction of what it is here.”
“I don’t have a car,” I tell her.
“I don’t have a car either,” she says. “How else are we going to do it, though?”
