Chapter 17
THE UGLY TRUTH COMES OUT
Andie
The key is so cold it burns.
I stand in the narrow vestibule of Thomas’s building, the key he gave me clenched in my palm, my breath fogging in the uncertain gap between indoors and out.
The river wind shoves at the glass doors behind me, the kind of wind that seeps through walls and bones.
The rest of the world is a blur because I can’t see.
I can’t hear. I can’t think of anything, but the mess my life has become.
For a long moment I stay just like this, staring up at the bank of elevators, not moving, not even sure if I can move.
My phone is in my other hand, thumb hovering over the screen.
I haven’t let go of it for hours. It’s as if there’s still some magic in the device—a last hope that the words on it, the call history, could change or blink or vibrate with a message from him.
But the display is nothing but a row of unanswered texts, blue bubbles hanging like baited hooks in a dark current.
I kept texting Thomas last night, begging him to listen, but to no avail. He never wrote back.
I use the key to activate the elevator, and wait.
When the doors open, the cab is empty. The mirror inside throws my face back at me: pale, hair limp under my hat, eyes so rimmed and swollen it looks like I’ve lost a fight.
I step in, hit “PH,” and lean into the corner, phone clenched in both hands like a prayer.
On the way up, I press redial one last time.
The elevator is silent but for the wheeze and hum of the gears, but then Thomas’s voice fills the small space: his recorded voicemail, low and polished, a little flat, the “You’ve reached Thomas Moreland.
Please leave a message” barely concealing the Minnesota vowels.
I listen all the way through, let it beep, and then I hang up before I can say anything. I watch my own fingers shake as I do it.
At the top, the doors open to the penthouse, and for a moment, everything feels okay. But then, I notice that the lights are off. Everything is dark and silent, and the sound of my heart is louder than the faint shhh of the elevator doors as they close behind me.
I grip the key, heart pounding.
I step forward, and see that there’s a single low lamp on off to the right, its light pooling in a perfect circle on the living room rug.
Heavy curtains are drawn tight against the skyline; behind them, the city glimmers in a muted grid, smeared and streaked with winter haze.
There’s a Scotch bottle open on the bar and a matching cut-glass tumbler in Thomas’s hand, the color of it catching the lamp and turning everything gold and brown.
He’s sitting in the big leather chair by the window. Jacket off, sleeves rolled to the elbow, collar open at the throat. I can see the pulse in his neck. His eyes are all shadow.
He doesn’t get up when I come in. He just watches me, the glass resting on his knee, the other hand clamped on the arm of the chair. For a second, he looks like he’s not sure what I am—a burglar, a stray, a ghost he conjured by accident.
“Hi,” I say, voice small. The word disappears into the air, lost before it even reaches him.
He waits. He doesn’t invite me in. He doesn’t ask if I want a drink. He just stares at me with those blue eyes, the same eyes that saw me nude and trembling, spread open on his bed, calling his name. Those eyes that could look at me for hours and never blink.
“Come here,” he says, finally. The words are soft but not gentle.
I walk across the silent carpet, feeling like a trespasser.
Every step closer, I smell the Scotch—peaty and sweet and laced with something burned.
I smell, too, the faint echo of my own perfume, the one I left here last weekend, a ghost on the fabric of the couch.
The memory lands with a jolt, cruel and nostalgic.
I stop three feet from him, because anything closer would mean forgiveness, and I don’t deserve that.
He doesn’t look at me, not directly. He sets the glass down on the little side table, making a point of it, the heavy crystal ticking loud in the quiet.
He asks, “Was it true?” His voice is flat, almost expressionless. “The bet. Was it real, or was Stella just making up nasty shit to see if she could ruin my life?”
I feel the words hit like a slap. I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out at first. When I finally force it, my voice cracks on the first syllable.
“The bet was real,” I say, “but it wasn’t—” I shake my head, try again. “It was real, but it was a stupid thing. We made the bet before I ever even knew who you were. I never meant—”
He holds up a hand. Just that. The gesture is so calm it freezes me in place.
He says, “You should have told me.”
I try to meet his gaze, but he’s staring at the carpet, at the spill of light on the floor. His face is rigid, all bone and shadow.
He goes on, “You should have told me, or you should have walked away from it. Either would have been fine. But you didn’t.
You kept it going.” He leans forward, elbows on knees.
“You took pictures, Andie. Remember the fundraiser, early on? You took a picture of my dick, with my face showing. Was that for the bet?”
I nod, too ashamed to lie.
He gives a single, humorless laugh, not even a breath. “Of course. Because you showed it to the other girls.”
I want to explain it, to tell him I only ever wanted to win for the sake of not losing, that I would give everything just for a chance to start over.
I want to say that I love him, that every time I pressed my body to his it wasn’t for a prize, it was because I needed him like air, like water, like sustenance.
But all of it sounds so weak, so childish, that the words die before I can even try.
I hear myself say, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
He cuts me off, voice so controlled it’s almost inhuman.
“You didn’t mean to win? Or you didn’t mean for me to find out?
” He turns, now, and his eyes pin me to the spot.
“Did you think you’d just keep it a secret, and everything would be fine?
That you could fuck your way through a thousand-dollar dare and I’d be none the wiser? ”
I flinch. It’s not the word “fuck” that hurts. It’s the truth under it.
He stands, slow and deliberate, and for a second I think he’s going to throw the glass. But he doesn’t. He just stands there, arms crossed over his chest, looking down at me with a rigidity I’ve never seen before.
He says, “You’re a kid. Maybe that’s my fault. I thought you were more than that, but maybe you’re not.” His jaw tightens, a muscle jumping. “Give me the key. I want it back. You have no right to use it anymore.”
The key. I’d forgotten it was still in my pocket. I take it out, the metal slick and greasy in my fingers. I walk to the kitchen counter, set it down. The sound is so loud it makes me jump.
He nods, as if that’s all he was waiting for.
My eyes are hot, burning, but I can’t let myself cry. Not yet.
He walks back to his chair, sits, and picks up the glass. He doesn’t look at me again.
“Go home, Andie,” he says. The words are so quiet I almost miss them. “You don’t belong here.”
I try to speak, try to argue, but nothing works. Instead, I just stand there, tears slipping down my face, making cold streaks on my cheeks.
I press my hand to my mouth, holding the sound in. I want to say something that will fix it, but there isn’t anything.
So I turn to go.
At the door, I stop, turn back. My voice is a whisper, shredded and helpless.
“I love you.”
He doesn’t move. He doesn’t speak. He just stares out at the city, and I realize he’s already left, in every way that matters.
I let the door close behind me. The sound of it, soft and final, echoes down the empty hall.
I ride the elevator to the ground floor, face wet and raw, and I don’t look in the mirror. I don’t look anywhere. The city on the other side of the glass doors is cold and bright, and when I step outside, the wind cuts through me like a judgment.
I walk for a long time before I even realize where I’m going, the rhythm of my boots on the sidewalk the only thing that keeps me upright.
I left the key on the counter. I left my heart. I left everything.
But the words he said to me—the ones he didn’t even say—are a weight I can never put down.
All I can think is: it’s over.
And maybe I deserve that.
Maybe I always did.