8. Then
EIGHT
then
“This is completely ridiculous.”
As ever, Maggie had a point. She fluffed her hair up off the back of her neck and scowled at me through round rose-gold glasses. “I thought you said what happened with Hot Subway Guy last week was no big deal .”
I chewed on my bottom lip and bounced in place. Sweat slicked my lower back until my black tank top clung to me like Saran wrap. “It was.”
Maggie’s eyes narrowed while she cocked her head. “Then why, exactly, am I standing in Satan’s asshole? ”
I almost laughed, but the sound got caught halfway up my throat. Maggie hated our usual subway stop, and I didn’t blame her. The Ralph Avenue station was a pit. It wasn’t even a “station” per se—just an underground strip of scraped-up concrete.
Usually, the smell was just about tolerable… but heat turned it into a suffocating stench. Even as twilight cooled the sidewalks above us, the air in the tunnel remained muggy and putrid.
“It’s not that bad,” I lied.
Her dubious, dark eyes scanned the area behind us. She lowered her voice to a growl. “You’re not afraid of being mugged in this hellhole, but you’re afraid of a handsome man who likes you?” She shook her head. “Ella Callahan, you need therapy.”
The truth embedded in her jest stung my chest. She had no way of knowing I had already tried—desperately—to get in with student services’ counseling center for over a year. After what happened to me, every campus officer, guidance counselor, and dean told me the same thing: that it “seemed like” I would “benefit” from “someone to talk to.”
Because, apparently, the whole incident was my problem, not theirs… or the guy’s.
But every therapist wanted special insurance or close to $200 an hour, and I had neither.
So, I took up knitting. And yoga. And baking. And I filled every available second of my time with work, school, or studying. The less time I had to think, the better. Plus, falling into bed exhausted every night actually gave me a fighting chance at sleep.
“—think it’s intimacy issues, but what do I know?”
I tuned back in as Maggie finished her monologue. “Anyway, regardless of what your issue is, the problem isn’t going away any time soon. I mean…” Her gaze started at my ankles—deliberately omitting my clogs—and ran up to my face as if proving a point. “ Look at you.”
I glanced down at the toothpaste-stained tank top that would soon be soaked through with sweat. “You’re right,” I deadpanned. “I’m basically a model. ”
Maggie’s face pinched, annoyed. “Dubious fashion choices aside—you’re hot. And the guys will just keep on comin’.”
Our subway appeared as I rolled my eyes. “Let’s just get this over with.”
My anxiety ramped into a roar as soon as the train left Brooklyn. Maggie chatted away. And I counted down the stops until we hit the Financial District.
The usual mix of Wall Streeters filed in. Thankfully, this week, none of them seemed drunk.
“Oh. My God.” Maggie’s voice dropped to a low murmur. “Is that him ? That has to be him. Six-three? Bright green eyes? Hair you want to yank? Bronzed like Adonis?”
I didn’t need to look up to know she was right. I suddenly felt Grayson’s eyes on me, tracing my left cheekbone, then my neck, and the place where my sticky black tank exposed my collarbone.
Instead of turning toward him, I bent my head to Mags. “You’re supposed to be my buffer,” I whispered. “Now, act like we’re having a serious conversation so he can’t come over here.”
Maggie glared at me. “We are having a serious conversation if you think I’m going to help you cheat yourself out of that fine-ass man over there. Seriously, Ella. Are you insane? ”
She started to lift her gaze back to him. I elbowed her in the ribs. “Mags, stop .”
Her dark eyes widened and leaped back to mine. “Okay, Ella, seriously ? I don’t know if I can help you here...”
My throat tightened.
Damn it, why didn’t I bring my knitting?
“The way he’s looking at you… I don’t think anything is going to stop him from coming over here.”
I prayed she was wrong. And right. I couldn’t decide what would be worse—having to face Grayson after the way I freaked out, or never speaking to him again.
I knew, deep down, if I didn’t ever talk to him, I would always regret it.
Not just because Maggie had a point—he was beautiful, and I’d probably never meet anyone who compared. But because it was a pitiful choice. The decision to let fear win.
Sure, for months, I vowed that I would never be alone with a guy ever again. But avoiding Grayson meant denying myself something I really wanted.
It would mean letting the person who hurt me take even more than he already had.
And I didn’t want that.
Couldn’t allow that.
So, I took a deep breath for bravery, and looked up.