Betting on the Brainiac: a Sweet Romantic Comedy

36. Chapter Thirty-Six

Something is wrong with Madison.

When I texted her to thank her for the cutting board I found on my kitchen counter, she only sent me a thumbs-up. I let that go, but when I get home the next day, there’s nothing new in the apartment. The only way I can tell that she’s been by is that the cats’ water bowl has been recently topped off.

Is she mad at me? Did I do or say something wrong?

I should text her, but it’s past 10:00 on a Friday, so she’ll be deep into her shift at Gatsby’s. She wouldn’t even see it before 2 AM.

Tomorrow. I’ll go over midmorning, see if she wants to get breakfast. Ask her to her face so she can’t ignore a text. I can read her pretty well now. I can figure it out if we talk for a bit.

Even though I’m exhausted after a fourteen-hour workday and a half hour of kitten play, I don’t sleep well when I go to bed. I toss and turn, and my internal clock tells me it’s closer to dawn than midnight when I finally start to drop off.

I wake up to strong morning light and stare at the ceiling for a full minute, willing myself to get out of bed. This schedule is punishing, but we have to finish this software on time. Have to. It’s more important than ever.

It’s taking a toll though. I feel it when I sit at the edge of the bed, talking myself into getting up and getting going instead of crawling back under the covers for two more hours of sleep.

“Pull it together, Oliver,” I say.

The bed almost wins until the doorbell rings. With a groan, I pull on a T-shirt and head down the stairs, pausing when I spot a shiny fringed mound on my sofa. It’s Madison, and it looks like she’s been there all night.

I open the door to find a pretty blonde woman on the doorstep. I haven’t seen her before, but I recognize the blue of her eyes. “Kaitlyn?”

“Oliver?”

“Shh.” I put my finger to my lips before jerking my head to welcome her in.

Her eyes widen when she spots Madison. Sorry, she mouths.

I shake my head to let her know it’s no big deal and head for the coffee maker. If anything, it’s a bonus that she stopped by and that Madi happened to fall asleep on the sofa. It reinforces her story about our living arrangement.

Kaitlyn beelines to the cats. Tabitha streaks out of the cat cave and leaps onto Madison’s back right as I accidently clink the coffee pot against the counter. Madison groans and stirs, shielding her eyes as she sits up. Tabitha simply moves to her lap.

“Good morning,” I say. “Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you.”

“That’s okay. You didn’t know—”

“Kaitlyn’s here,” I interrupt before Madison can say something about not meaning to sleep over.

Madison turns until she spots her sister. “Hey.”

“Hey.” Kaitlyn has two kittens already settled in her lap. “Sorry. Should have remembered you worked last night and might still be asleep.”

“’Sokay.” Madison blinks and pulls the soft new throw around her shoulders. She’s not fully with us yet.

“I’m making coffee,” I tell her. “You want some, Kaitlyn? Nice to meet you, by the way.”

“You too. Coffee would be great,” she says. “Thank you.”

“No problem.”

“Also, people call me Katie. If you want.” Her tone is almost self-conscious.

“They do?” Madison looks genuinely surprised. “Since when?”

Kaitlyn shrugs. “College. At least, my friends do. Mom and Dad still call me Kaitlyn.”

A silence falls. Madison stares at Kaitlyn like she’s an interesting bug. Kaitlyn stares at Smudge and Tuxie.

I clear my throat. “How was work?”

Madi looks over. “Fine. Full tables. Good tips.”

“Must have been tired to fall asleep in your uniform,” I say.

She glances down at her fringed top, then snuggles even deeper into the blanket, a hand snaking out to scratch beneath Tabitha’s chin. “I stopped to say goodnight to Tabitha, but she wanted to talk for a bit. Sorry I fell asleep, sweetie. I promise I care.”

I smile at how Tabitha is leaning in to the scratches. “I’m jealous.”

“Invalid,” Madison says. “She always picks you over me. As soon as you sit down, I will no longer exist. Give me my moment.”

I’d meant jealous of Tabitha, of course.

A sound like the muted rumble of a distant garbage truck fills the quiet, and it takes me a second, but then all our eyes are on Tabitha. It gets louder, and I grin. “She never purrs that loud for me.”

Kaitlyn’s forehead scrunches. “Is that normal?”

Madison shrugs as she smiles at the spellbound cat. “Don’t know. She seems happy.”

“I don’t know either,” I tell Kaitlyn when she looks at me. “Buncha cat noobs. Coffee is done. How do you take it?”

“Black,” Kaitlyn says.

“Vanilla creamer,” Madison says.

“You don’t know her coffee order?” Kaitlyn sounds surprised.

“She’s not a morning person,” I say as Madison’s face freezes. She’s still not awake enough to put on a solid performance. “I don’t usually need to make her coffee.”

I deliver their mugs then return to the sofa with my own black coffee and settle in. I can’t decide if I’m glad Kaitlyn is here. On the one hand, she’s a buffer. On the other, I can’t check in with Madi until she’s gone.

“Do you like working at Gatsby’s?” Kaitlyn asks.

“It’s fun,” Madison says. Kaitlyn doesn’t look convinced, and Madi frowns. “You don’t believe me?”

“I do,” Kaitlyn says.

“But . . . ?”

Kaitlyn takes a sip before answering, and when she lowers her mug, her eyes are slightly unfocused, like she’s thinking of something else. “I wouldn’t have guessed in high school you would end up there.”

Madi’s nose flares. “Why? Because it’s beneath an Armstrong?”

Kaitlyn shakes her head and studies her sister. “No. You were so different in high school.”

Now that’s interesting. I want to know more. “Tell me about high school Madison. Homecoming queen? Cheerleader? Dated the captain of the football team?”

“Think nerdier,” Kaitlyn says, and Madison rolls her eyes. “She was on the dance team. Honor roll. Didn’t date much.”

“By choice,” Madison interjects.

“Quiet, you,” I tell her. “This is Katie’s story.”

“She was into school and dance and she read a lot. Not big into parties. That started in college. By the time I got to UT, she was . . .” She trails off when Madison shoots her a sharp look. “Different.”

“You were a homebody bookworm?” I ask Madison, trying to imagine it. She’s always full of energy, looking for fun. Or more often, mischief.

“Not a homebody. Only when I knew a book was going to be better than a party,” she says. “But people change in college all the time, especially when they discover the values their parents taught them are shallow. Purely about public image. Don’t embarrass the Armstrong name. And that turns out to be a mind-bending level of hypocrisy.”

“So you do the opposite?” Kaitlyn asks. There is no judgment in her tone.

“Yes, Kaitlyn.” Madison sounds almost sarcastic. “You do the opposite of whatever they want, because you don’t have to listen to hypocrites.”

It’s not my place to step in, but I hope Kaitlyn recognizes that under the sarcasm, there’s anger. And under that, hurt. A lot of it.

“Why are you mad at me?” Kaitlyn asks.

Madison looks at her like she can’t even believe she asked the question. “Because you’re still on their team. Still their spy and enforcer. Still think it’s more embarrassing that I run around in this fringe than it is for Dad to be greedy and unscrupulous.”

Kaitlyn is quiet for a while, petting Big Stripey. Finally, she says, “I should have figured that out sooner. About Dad. It didn’t click until I took a business law and ethics class last fall. The professor asked to meet with me before the semester started and let me know that she’d be using Jeneze as a case study of failed corporate ethics. Didn’t want me to be blindsided and said I could transfer to a different professor. I stayed.”

Madison doesn’t say anything to this. She keeps her eyes on Tabitha. Scratching. Scratching. Scratching.

“I started reading everything I could find on it,” Kaitlyn says. “It was messed up. I had no idea how much.”

“Then why do you still work for Armstrong Holdings?” Madison asks.

“Do you know what I do there?”

“Director of something, I’m sure. Marketing?” Madison guesses.

“I work for the compliance officer,” Kaitlyn says.

Whoa. I didn’t see that coming. The compliance officer makes sure a company is meeting all regulatory and legal requirements in every territory they operate in, as well as making sure employees are compliant with internal policies.

Madison knows it too, but she’s not giving an inch. “Sounds like having a fox guard the henhouse. But so fitting for you. Professional tattling.”

That was mean and low, and I keep my eyes on my mug and force myself to keep out of it.

Kaitlyn sets her mug on the coffee table and returns each kitten to the cat cave.

“You protested by bailing.” She stands. “I chose compliance because I want to make a difference. Take us back to the good intentions of Patricia Armstrong, before she died and Dad took over. Dad can’t pressure or bully me the way he could anyone else in that job because it won’t work on me. I’m working there for a year, then going to law school so I can eventually become our chief compliance officer. Thanks for the coffee. Sorry I can’t finish it.”

She heads for the door, and I will Madison to stop Kaitlyn, to apologize, to do something to acknowledge that her sister wants to be an ally in reforming the company. I’m about to burst and ask Kaitlyn to stay myself, but as she reaches the door, Madison finally speaks.

“I didn’t bail. I was hibernating until I could get the money to do something meaningful. When I get the rest of my trust, I’m going to use it to establish a victims’ fund for the factory collapse. You know I work at a fair-trade store?”

Kaitlyn nods.

“I’ve already started doing more with that. Like a community education initiative.”

“The library display?” Kaitlyn asks. When Madison gives her a surprised look, Kaitlyn adds, “Ruby told me. I go over there sometimes.”

“The library?”

“Your house. You aren’t there much.”

“Because I live here.”

Kaitlyn shrugs. “Your plan, your consequences.”

Madison takes a second with that, then goes back to her point. “I didn’t just rebel. I’ve been doing what I can, and the more money I get, the more I can do.”

“But is it as much as you can do?” Kaitlyn asks. “Because that’s the thing, Madison. You give all of yourself to your friends, and that’s it. Just the three other people in your house. Everyone and everything else gets some, never all. You’re all in fostering cats because sooner than later, they won’t be your problem anymore. You work a job where you get male attention without having to be in a relationship. You’ve even figured out how to have a temporary marriage.”

Madison’s eyes spit fire. “That is not fair—”

“Stop,” Kaitlyn says with a bite in her tone. “It is what it is. You do you, sis. I’m trying to change, but I can’t make you see that, and I definitely can’t make you want it for yourself. But you’re right about one thing: I used to be a tattler. Some of us outgrow our bad patterns. And since my therapist is going to ask, I’ll confess: Mom and Dad didn’t deputize me to check on your marriage. It sucked so much to have your wedding photos come to the house and not have been there. So I made up checking in as a reason to come see you. And I like your stupid kittens. And I love 7-Eleven.”

She slams the door when she leaves, and Madison stares at it, jaw dropped.

Tabitha startles her by hopping from her lap, and Madison turns to look at me, summoning a smile that doesn’t quite stick. “I only need my mom to come over, and you’ll have seen every person in my family yell at me. But I swear to you, I am not the bad guy.”

“I could never think that about you,” I say.

“I need one of those post-family-fight hugs.” Her voice is light, but my heart hurts for her.

I slide over and rest an arm around her shoulder, pulling her against my side. She nestles in with her head against my chest. “I’m sorry.” My breath stirs her hair when I talk and it tickles my chin, but I don’t move. “You are not the bad guy. You are the goodest guy. Girl? Woman. You are the goodest.”

I feel her laugh, and her hand emerges from her blanket cape to pat my chest in acknowledgment of my pep talk efforts. She leaves it there, and we sit like that for a couple of minutes.

It’s so quiet now that we can hear the outside noise. Muffled conversation from the courtyard, punctuated by a high laugh. The distant sound of a car door closing in the parking lot. The closer sound of a wagon clattering past on the sidewalk that passes the rear of this unit.

Madison’s fingers pick at my shirt, mindlessly fidgeting, but every time one of her fingers grazes against my chest, my body reacts. Goosebumps down my arms first. Then a shiver down my spine that I fight. Soon I have to focus to keep my breath even. I try, but with her warm body curled into mine, her fingers skimming over my chest, it’s hard to concentrate. It’s also frustrating.

I tell myself to give her another minute of comfort before I ease away with an excuse to go to work. But another minute passes, and I don’t move.

She stops fidgeting and rests her palm against my chest, near her cheek. Maybe she’ll fall back asleep, and I won’t need to make an excuse to leave. I close my eyes, hoping she drifts off quickly. Instead, my other senses turn up, and I notice her caramel smell even more intensely. Her softness. Her warmth.

Move.

I don’t listen.

Her hand presses slightly, and too late I realize she’s feeling my heartbeat speed up. I hear it in my own ears. There is no way to explain that away, but I clear my throat, hoping when I open my mouth something sane comes out.

Madison shifts before I can speak, clutching a handful of my shirt, using the leverage to slide and turn, and suddenly she’s in my lap, her knees cradling my hips, her face in the crook of my neck, the tip of her nose brushing the skin behind my ear, the warm puff of her breath fanning the ember I try to keep banked.

I need a lifeline here, and I close my hands into fists. “Madison,” I murmur.

She lets go of my shirt long enough to pull the blanket around, bringing her hand back to slip it behind my neck, anchoring the blanket and closing us into a burrow, shoulders down.

It traps the heat between us, and she brushes her nose against the skin behind my ear again. “What, Oliver?” She moves slowly, tracing her parted lips down my jawline.

Maybe this is how I die.

“Madison,” I try again, and I sound drunk to my own ears. I slide my hands up and around her waist, thumbs against her bottom ribs. I mean to gently move her.

Instead, she makes a muffled sound of approval, and I tighten my hold instead of shifting her over.

She’s worked her way down to the side of my neck, and she pauses, her mouth resting against my skin. Her finger begins the softest tap on the back of my neck. She’s taking in the rhythm of my pulse through her lips.

Intense craving tears through my body. “Madison.”

She lifts her head and watches me from heavy-lidded eyes, a smile playing around the corners of her mouth.

“Madison.” My voice is rough. “That is not what we are.”

She tilts her head, studying me with eyes that are still hungry.

I want to kiss her. I need it more than my next breath. I know exactly how good it will be.

I brush my lips against the corner of her mouth, and she’s waiting for me, turning her head the barest fraction to capture my bottom lip between her teeth, scraping it so lightly between them as she releases it that it sends lightning down my spine.

She waits for me to take my turn in this dance, and I want to. I want to close the excruciatingly narrow gap between us. But if I do, if I take the offer of her lips, she will remember.

She will remember that night, that feeling. And she’ll know it was me.

Would it fill her eyes with shock or wonder? Stirring that up right now . . .

It’s not what I need. It’s not what she needs. More importantly, she deserves the truth when she’s not vulnerable.

I slide her arms from my neck. “Go to your corner, Mads.”

Her wrists are in my hands, resting in her lap between us, and it changes her balance, making her lose it, forcing her to lean into me, her face settled into the crook of my neck again, her warm breath fanning across my throat.

“I like my new spot better,” she teases, her chest rumbling against mine.

“Why now?”

She pauses then nestles against me. “Why not? You feel good.”

Her pause gave away the truth. “You don’t know the answer to why now, but I do.”

“Tell me, Ollie.” She sounds amused.

I let go of one of her wrists and reach up to smooth her hair back. Every movement is an act of will to keep my hand from wandering—to her chin to lift it for another kiss, to her side to follow the curve of her waist to the swell of her hip. But I focus, pulling gently at the blonde strands trapped between us, slipping them free to spill down her back. “The answer is because you feel bad.”

She gives an annoyed sigh. “I feel tired, maybe. I worked late.”

“And you’re avoiding your place which means you’re not happy with one of your besties. And you’re definitely not happy with your sister.” I stop talking to free more of her hair, gently pulling and smoothing them behind her shoulder. Trying to keep my tone equally gentle, I say, “That would make anyone feel bad.”

“It’s not that big a deal.” A long silence, a lazy stretch to bring her lips closer to my ear, a low murmur. “I don’t feel bad right now.”

I stay quiet for a couple of seconds and force myself to draw a steady, quiet breath. Force myself to replay her answer. Why not?

Not like this.

I settle my hand around her upper arms and hold her away from me, letting her see that I mean this. “I’m your friend, not your opiate.”

She goes still, the smile gone, her eyes fixed on mine. Then she’s gone, retreating to the end of the sofa. She reaches for her coffee and pulls her knees to her chest to tuck herself into the corner. She sips from her mug like this is any old morning and any old cup of coffee.

I’m not playing that. “That was a rough visit with your sister.”

“Apparently, since it made me want to dehumanize you and use you for my own selfish reasons.” Her tone is light, but she keeps her eyes on the cat cave.

“You’re forgiven.” Her head jerks back around. “This is why I had to leave Oklahoma. I warned you about the stealth sexiness, and now it’s starting again. I thought I’d be safe in such a big state, but it overcame you. Don’t feel bad. You were always doomed.”

She stares at me for several long seconds—endless, excruciating seconds—before she snorts.

We sit in quiet. It feels okay. Like we’re okay, even though she nearly just killed me with wanting. But once again, despite my best intentions, now is not the time to tell her about that first kiss. Not when she’s already feeling exposed.

So I let the silence be, and so does she.

After a couple of minutes, she sighs and turns toward me. “What do you think?”

“About . . . ?”

“Me. What Kaitlyn said.”

“That it’s none of my business, and I’m sorry I keep accidentally hearing your family fights.”

“No direct answer.” She nods slowly a few times, and it has a gentle rhythm to it. “That’s not good.”

“It’s not my place to weigh in on this.” Not if I want her to keep talking to me.

She makes a frustrated noise. “I’m asking sincerely for you to tell me what you think.”

What does a good friend do here? Tell the hard truth? Be her hype man? What would I want someone to do for me?

“You like stasis,” I say, carefully sticking to neutral words.

“Meaning what?”

Pulling us from the brink of disaster a few minutes ago used up all my diplomacy. “That’s a deep conversation. It stresses me out to go into it without time to think first. Can we table this for now and come back to it later?”

“I get that you aren’t impulsive, but just tell me.” It’s a dig because I didn’t kiss her just now. I know it is.

“Is that a jab? That I’m not impulsive?”

“An observation. Now you spill yours. Stasis. Cowboy up and own it.”

“All right, Mads.” She wants to fight dirty, fine. “Stasis. You stay, sis. You do exactly what you need to do to not take a step forward in your life, and that includes being busy enough with the store or Gatsby’s to pretend that you’re moving forward.”

“That’s not true,” she says. “I started as a cocktail server at Gatsby’s and now I’m managing the serving staff. I started by volunteering at the store and now I do their books and their buying.”

“That’s busyness. In the end, you’re still working at a fair-trade Anthropologie and a bar like you have for the last, what, four years?”

She doesn’t answer, and her jaw is tight.

Yeah, this was a bad idea. It makes me frustrated with both of us. I get up to rinse out my mug. “Pattern is a good word. Save yourself for a masked dude at the club because holding out for Prince Charming is easier than falling in love. Pour yourself into your friends because that’s easier than managing family relationships.”

I set the mug on the counter with a loud clink. “Something’s been nagging at me, but it wasn’t until listening to Kaitlyn that I pinpointed it. Maybe setting up a compensation fund that is all about what happened in the past is easier than thinking about how to make a change that looks toward the future. Something that would require more of you than your money.”

“I’m confused. I’m thinking too much about the future to settle on a man right now, but I think too much about the past to settle on a purpose for myself in the future. I’m hiding from life in retail and waitressing. And you think I should ignore the people my dad cheated out of fair settlements. Am I even hearing this right?”

I pinch the bridge of my nose and force myself to take a calming breath. “I’m sorry about the Anthropologie crack. That was . . .”

“Petty?” Her voice is flat.

“Unnecessary. But I said everything else the way I hope a friend would talk to me. I wasn’t trying to be mean.” I turn and walk to the stairs. “I have to go to Azora. I’m sorry you had a rough start to your day. You and Kaitlyn will figure it out.” I don’t have a good ending to this speech, so I just say what’s true. “I hope it gets better from here, Madi.”

She’s silent, and when I come back down after a shower and change of clothes, she’s gone.