Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
Grace
“What the hell are you doing?” Andrew slaps my hand away. His words slurred, sleeves unbuttoned and rolled up to his elbows, hair sticking out in different directions. A hazy reminder of our night.
“Paying the tab?” I lift my hand, my credit card wedged between the tips of my middle and index fingers. His own card is gripped between his fingers, and we start a duel of plastic and magnetic strips.
He slaps at my hand again, shooing it away and making him the winner. My card lands on the wooden surface with a clatter. A whimsical giggle bubbles up my throat, and I don’t know if it’s from Andrew’s sloppily moving hands as he slides his card to the bartender, or if it’s because I’m buzzed.
I vaguely remember the additional round of tequila shots we ordered. It was followed by a heated debate over the correct use of the plural form of the word moose. If it’s mooses or meese. Which segued into whether or not the luxury car brand Lexuses are in fact Lexi.
I remember having the best time with Andrew. My date with Gerald? Or was it Henry? Harold! It was Harold. I’d forgotten all about him—apparently—and my sudden wave of memory loss isn’t attributed to the amount of tequila I consumed but to the company by my side.
“It’s this way,” I tell Andrew, shuffling my steps toward my condo.
We settled the check after I lost a lazy battle, and we’re heading back to my condo where our cars are parked in the parking garage.
Andrew has his suit jacket looped over his arm, and he follows my steps while we leisurely end the night.
“You can’t drive like this,” I say, knowing damn well he’s in no condition to get behind the wheel.
“I’m fine. I’ll just sleep it off in my car for a few hours,” he tells me. He lightly punches my arm, his arms swaying as if that minor control of his arms and equilibrium is too much for his drunken state.
“No way,” I argue. “Just crash on my couch for a few hours.”
“Nah,” he assures. “I don’t want to intrude.”
“Don’t flatter yourself. Your presence isn’t as imposing as you might think.”
He does a gesturing motion. His hand cups the back of his neck, craning his head up toward the sky.
We both peer in the general direction of my building a block away.
His feet shuffle underneath him, dithering between the path that’ll either provide a soft, warm couch or a cold, uncomfortable seat and a neck cramp.
“Are you sure?”
I nod. “Come on.”
It never dawned on me that I have no reference as to what thirty-five hundred pounds is.
Is it the weight of an average-sized sedan?
Or maybe a teenage elephant? My lack of density awareness is probably because I’ve never stood in my elevator, pondering over the words “CAPACITY 3500 POUNDS” on a metal placard while Googling “Things that weigh almost two tons.” My attention is usually on other things like my phone screen or my purse while fishing for my keys.
But not tonight. Tonight, the center of my attention is on a safety code regulation.
Or at least, I’m trying to make it the center of my attention if not to hold on to my restraint and willpower, then at least to prove to Andrew there are zero subtexts to my invitation to free use of my couch.
It’s exactly what it’s meant to be—a friend considering the safety and well-being of another friend.
But with the alcohol still buzzing in my veins and Andrew’s close proximity making the tequila run at a low simmer below my skin, I’m struggling. Desperately.
I’m trying to shove away the image of an unruly Andrew.
His rumpled hair and loosely untucked dress shirt.
Even the way his heavy-lidded eyes look more playful than lethargic.
All of it needs to leave the deep recesses of my mind.
Maybe swerved off the road by an adolescent elephant driving recklessly in a sage-colored Toyota Camry.
“What’s so funny?”
“Hmm?”
Andrew looks at me with a crooked brow and a smug simper. “What’s so funny?” he repeats.
I quickly shake off the image of a teenage elephant trying to talk its way out of a speeding ticket using words like “Bruh” and “No cap” and “This is high key sus” and slide on my poker face. “Nothing.”
“Oh, so now you don’t want to share your jokes with me?”
“I don’t have a joke,” I say innocently. “I’m just…enjoying my buzz.” It’s not a complete lie. Imaginary elephants with a license to operate heavy machinery don’t slip into my thoughts unless they are inebriated with a little liquid courage.
“Hmm,” he hums with disapproval.
The elevator continues its ascent and whirs loudly on its way to the sixteenth floor. Just as we pass the fourth floor, I feel a warm brush tickle my back. It’s slow and gentle. And acutely intentional.
“You have really soft skin.”
I peer over my shoulder just in time to catch Andrew’s eyes raking over my backside. More listless sweeps of what feels like rough knuckles roam over my spine, and I turn on my feet by reflex. But the axis my heels rotate on is more than my alcohol-infused brain can handle.
“Whoa,” Andrew exclaims, catching my elbow in his strong grip just as my balance teeters in the other direction. “You okay?”
I look up at him and nod. “Just lost my footing.”
His other hand is on my waist. To prevent a face plant, I assume. He squeezes my side and suddenly my hands are on his hard chest. To push him away, I suppose.
“Tree Hut had a sale on the watermelon shea scent.”
“What?”
“My skin,” I say. My paltry attempt at an explanation. “It’s a watermelon-scented sugar scrub. It’s supposed to exfoliate all the dead skin off me. And it leaves behind a…flavorful scent.”
He leans closer, the confusion edging away into intrigue. “So does that mean you taste good too?”
I nod. A dangerous gesture. I’m dangling a juicy piece of meat between us while telling myself to swat it away and claim I’m a vegetarian. But I’m not. Not even close.
I don’t know if I get the chance to ask him if he thinks swallowing watermelon seeds will result in growing one in the lining of my stomach.
A myth I never debunked as a child. The silly question, as rhetorical as it is, is on the tip of my tongue.
But it’s swiped away the second he pushes me against the elevator wall and kisses me.
As muddled as my head feels through the murky fog of desperate sighs and hungry lips, I’m vividly aware of his hand slipping past the opening in my back, running boldly over my rib cage.
It feels amazing. His hands on me, my hands on him.
My knees feel wobbly. They buckle under the heat of our make-out session.
He’s such a good kisser. It doesn’t feel sloppy or inept.
He knows what the fuck he’s doing. Yet, there’s a little flicker of light going off in the back of my mind.
The minutest reminder that this is wrong.
I shouldn’t be kissing Andrew in an enclosed space.
Like a hook annoyingly tugging at the knowledge that this man I’m kissing is my best friend’s brother, my hands press against his chest, ready to push us apart.
Confident, assertive fingers grip my wrists and pin them behind me. “Don’t,” he commands.
I look at him, his dark eyes suddenly fierce and menacing. “Don’t what?” I ask weakly.
“Don’t act like you want me to stop.”
“I-I don’t—” I stutter. Fear clashes with curiosity in my stumped brain, and I’m scared to death the latter is going to be the victor. “We can’t,” I whisper.
I watch his eyes grow dark. It’s unnerving, and it sends a chill up my spine.
He lowers his face, his nose running along the length of my cheek.
“No one has to know.” His words are a claim, maybe even a promise.
But with his raspy voice gently dusting them over the shell of my ear, it feels like a plea.
My eyes flutter at the same time my stomach tumbles. Before I can argue, the elevator doors spring open. And curiosity wins in the end, holding up a gold trophy for all to admire with my reawakened libido and Andrew’s claim to keep this between us.
I don’t say anything as I reach for his hand and step off the elevator.
I stay quiet as we round the corners, our steps moving at an urgent and resolute pace.
The silence stretches across the threshold of my doorway.
Andrew watches me while I dig around in my purse for my keys.
I feel his hands on me again, poking and prodding within the confines of what my dress is allowing to expose.
And the door opens, cautiously welcoming us into another closed space shut off from the rest of the world.
Here, in my two-bedroom condo, it’s just me and him.
Clunky taps of rough claws and a loud, jangly collar charge after Andrew, pushing him against the closed door.
“Whoa,” he exclaims as Buster jumps to greet him.
“Oh, sorry,” I say, looping my finger under Buster’s collar and guiding him to the bathroom. He follows obediently, the standard process for when we have guests while we wait for them to acclimate before letting Buster sniff test them. “He just wanted to say hi.”
“It’s fine,” he tells me, throwing in an understanding smile.
The stirred-up dust that created a cloud of bad decisions has settled, and the aftereffects of the kiss in the elevator seems to be nothing but an awkward silence. I try to fill it with logistics.
“I don’t think I have anything that fits you,” I start, pointing a vague finger to the couch. “But you’ll have the living room to yourself if you want to just…” Sleep in his underwear? No, that’s not where this conversation should be heading. “I’ll get you some sheets and a blanket.”
“Grace,” he calls.
“I should have an extra pillow too. It has pretty good neck support. Not all flat and lumpy. It’s in my closet,” I inform him, ignoring what sounds like a protest. “I’ll go grab it.” I turn to walk away, avoiding his eyes.