Chapter 4 #2
“Daniela,” he murmurs to himself with a smile I almost can’t see, his face angled toward the kitchen counter. He nods, as if committing it to memory, and I swear, I see him mouth it again as he turns away to wash his hands.
Don’t look into it, bitch.
I press my lips together, wanting to bring up my work but not knowing how. My client, whom every ounce of my success now hinders on, wants to hire you, and if you say no, I’m worried I’ll end up bitter and unsuccessful, as well as forever alone?
Probably need a little more finesse than that.
He turns to face me, drying his hands with a kitchen towel, and I try my hand at bringing up why I’m here.
“Well—”
“So—”
We stop and stare at each other, and when he tells me to speak, I shake my head, a smile fighting its way out in response to the way his eyes crinkle at the edges.
“What were you going to say?” I insist, hoping I can somehow steer the conversation in a more organic way at some point. Maybe I can stop existing in this hyper-aware state, where I’m not sure if I’m breathing too loud or where to put my hands.
He’s grinning again, and as he starts to speak, finally giving me unabashed eye contact, I try not to stare at his lips, at the way they shape words and how plump his bottom lip appears.
I blink, pulling myself from wondering what his mouth would feel like against mine. It’s been so long since I’ve felt a man on top of me, so long since a man has even kissed me.
Three months. Nearly four?
Wait a fucking minute.
Quick calculations take over, and I stare past Quintin as horror sits heavy in my abdomen. My periods have always been irregular, skipping a month here and there—maybe two months—but I’ve never gone this long without one. I pull out my phone to count the weeks.
Fourteen weeks.
Fourteen weeks?!
Not a period in sight, not a tampon used, not a pantyliner needed.
In the anxiety of trying to get ready for the potentially biggest break of my career, I lost track of days. Recalling the empty condom wrappers that littered my bedroom floor the morning after my last sexual encounter, I try to find a way to fill my lungs with air.
What in the actual fuck?
“Dani?”
My lips are parted, my eyes wide, and when I finally look at Quintin, his brows are furrowed, the towel he’d been drying his hands with sitting between his stilled palms.
“Are you okay?” he asks, his low tone breaking through the sudden pounding in my ears.
A loaded fucking question.
“I…need to—” I shake my head, unable to form the words as my heart pumps double time. Am I having a fucking heart attack?
I’m having a fucking heart attack.
He reaches out, seconds away from placing his hands on my body. In this moment of complete emotional chaos, I can’t take the thought of feeling his touch. So, I step back, out of his reach, and shake my head again.
“I’m…sorry,” I whisper, turning to rush out of his apartment.
I’m never this late , I think as I enter the hallway.
I’m never this late , as I push open the front door to my apartment.
We used condoms. A few of them.
It’s just stress.
But what about the nausea, stupid ass?
I get into my apartment and slam the door shut before I call Santana, and it rings once before she answers. She hardly has a moment to speak before I cut her off.
“Bitch, get your ass over here now .”
I’m convinced this woman hates me, and I’m pissed I’m even continuing to think about it. Borderline obsessing over it at this point.
She apologized before running out of here like I told her I was at the State Capitol on January 6.
I can still smell her in my apartment, some sort of rose scent that knocked me silly when she first opened her door. I stood on the threshold of her place, trying my hardest not to ask her if I could come in, trying my hardest to make her feel comfortable.
Maybe she’s celibate or taking time away from dating. Maybe her ex was a douchebag, and now she’s scarred and terrified to try again.
Or maybe she just doesn’t fucking like you.
Women don’t need a reason, do they? Men certainly haven’t.
But my pride does, and that pisses me off. I usually don’t give a shit about things like this. I’ve maintained a life that has felt sufficient for a long time. Maybe I’m just being greedy now.
But the moment I come up for air and look somewhere other than at the massive list of things I need to do, I bump into a woman who has somehow sunk those manicured nails into my psyche.
Maybe not my psyche. Maybe just that little part of my brain that likes the pleasure of the company of a beautiful woman.
It feels like it’s more than her beauty, more than her wide hips. Maybe the loneliness in her eyes matches the loneliness in mine.
She owes me nothing
Still, I glance in the direction of her apartment, and I swear, I hear her door open before shutting again.
So she has company.
So maybe it is me.
Well, fuck.
The smell of the chicken I’d put in the oven begins to fill the air, erasing any lasting scent of her.
With a sigh, I turn the oven off and glance around my apartment.
The secondhand couch I’d picked out sits cozy against the wall, and the massive TV I mounted looks far too inviting.
I’d love nothing more than to turn my brain off and lick the wounds of rejection.
I haven’t sat idly in a long time, haven’t watched a movie or caught a basketball game. I have a few hours before I’m needed, and while I would show up early anyway just to make sure everything is going perfectly, I just don’t want to today.
Today, I want to enjoy my free time in the apartment I spent good money furnishing. I want to fill the spaces of my time with something other than purpose.
I swear, I hear people talking next door, and I plop down on the couch, grabbing the remote, determined to drown out the noise.
As if the universe is on my side, the sound of gunshots fills the living room as the action movie plays. I settle back comfortably, prepared to give myself a few hours to relax before it’s time to head to work.
And I promise myself I’ll no longer look longingly at her door. I won’t knock on her door, I won’t bother her, and I won’t make her uncomfortable.
I will leave Daniela alone.