Chapter 2 #2
Chances were, someone would try to use the elevator sooner rather than later.
They’d realize it was out of order and alert the super and Sam would be out of here in, fingers crossed, no time.
Until then, she decided to make herself at home, hunkering down in the back right corner of the elevator, crossing her legs and tucking her coat around her as she settled in for however long it took for help to arrive.
The stranger joined her down on the floor. “So”—she cocked her head in that uncanny way that made the hair on Sam’s body stand on end—“what is?”
Sam sighed, perfectly fine with waiting this malfunction out in silence. “What is what ?”
“Your thing , silly. Keep up.”
Excuse her for not following the riddled ramblings of someone she could only presume, with what evidence she had, to be a madwoman. “Hannah, I guess.”
The woman made a derisive sound and kicked Sam’s foot. “Your ex-girlfriend doesn’t count.”
Sam scowled. “Says who?”
“Says me.”
And who died and made this woman the authority on special interests? “Fine. Then I guess I don’t have one.”
“Bullshit. Everyone’s got a thing.”
Sam stared pensively at the floor.
Four years ago, when she had moved to the city with nothing but a suitcase and a prayer, a whole new world at her fingertips, she had set out to broaden her horizons.
She’d said sure, why not each time her coworkers invited her out for drinks.
She’d joined a queer running club only to swiftly remember she hated running, and then she’d signed up for a cozy mystery book club, which was much more her speed.
She’d taken pottery classes and had volunteered at a local animal shelter, which led to her adopting Nacho and Pumpkin.
She’d downloaded Hinge and had gone on a handful of first dates, and then, one fateful Sunday in March, her whole life had changed.
She’d been in the grocery store, a bottle of olive oil in each hand, trying to decide between them, when, from around the corner, someone had accidentally rammed into her with their shopping cart, not paying attention to where they were going.
It had been a mess, olive oil everywhere.
Hannah had been mortified, blushing like a cute little ripe tomato and babbling breathless apologies all the way to the register, insisting that she not only pay the store for the broken bottles but buy Sam’s groceries, too.
Sam had told her the offer was kind but unnecessary.
If you won’t let me pay for your groceries, Hannah had said, at least let me buy you a drink .
Back then, Sam was working forty hours a week at a chain restaurant in Midtown.
Not a job with much growth potential, granted, but it had paid the bills, which, at the time, had been good enough for her.
Hannah was the one who had encouraged her to apply to a more prestigious restaurant, somewhere Sam could hone her skills, somewhere she could shine.
Why settle for good enough , Hannah had asked one night, under the cover of darkness, Sam’s bedsheets tucked under her chin, when you could be great?
Why settle for being a junior pastry chef when you could be an executive pastry chef somewhere one day?
Why stop there? Why would you dream of running a bakery when you could make it your goal to own one?
Fast-forward two and a half years. When Sam wasn’t working, busting her ass six days a week, fourteen hours most shifts, weekends and some holidays, she spent what little free time she had with Hannah.
No complaints—there was no one Sam would rather spend her time with than Hannah—but she hadn’t seen her parents in more than a year, and it had been even longer since she’d taken a real vacation.
She barely had time to read a book, let alone go to a book club meeting to discuss one.
“Consider me the exception.”
“Aw,” she cooed, unflinching in the face of Sam’s undisguised ire. “You special little snowflake. Do you want a gold star? You know, for being so exceptional.”
Sam would be the last to ever claim exceptionality. “Your words, not mine.”
She shrugged. “Fine. We can talk about something else.”
“To be perfectly honest, I’d rather us not talk at all,” she spit back, patience running on empty.
She made a face, nose scrunching, telling Sam exactly what she thought of that idea without even needing to open her mouth. “The way I see it, we could be stuck in here awhile. All night maybe. I don’t know about you, but I don’t do great with extended silences.”
“You don’t say.”
“We could talk about Hannah. Her name is Hannah, right? Your ex?”
“Hannah’s not my—We’re just …” Sam couldn’t even say the word, her mouth refusing to cooperate. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I’m going to get her back. I have a plan.”
“ Sure ,” the woman said, drawing out the word, sounding skeptical. “Whatever you say.”
“I am , okay? It’s just …” Sam traced the sharp edge of her incisor with the tip of her tongue, weighing her words. Spilling her guts to a stranger? Not worth it. “Forget it.”
“No, consider my interest piqued.” The woman rested her elbows on her knees, her chin on her hands. “What does this undoubtedly well-devised scheme entail?”
“You can dial back the sarcasm.” Sam scowled. “What makes you think I have any desire to pour my heart out to some stranger in an elevator?”
A stranger with a twisted sense of humor and a penchant for poking fun at her, no less.
“Oh, come on,” she cajoled, a slow, sly smile curling the corners of her lips.
“You said it—I’m a stranger in an elevator in a city full of nothing but strangers, eight million of them, give or take.
I’m as unbiased as they come, and after we leave here, the chances of us seeing each other again are slim to none.
Can you honestly think of anyone better to pour your heart out to? ”
“Actually—”
“That was rhetorical.” She rolled her eyes. “Do you want someone to blow sunshine up your skirt, sweetheart, or are you looking to win your ex back?”
“Like I said.” Sam gritted her teeth. “I already have a plan.”
“A plan, sure . If it’s anything like your proposal, I’m sure it’ll go off without a hitch.”
Sam’s heart sank.
Either she convinced Hannah to take her back, or—
“Fine. It’s less of a plan and more of a …
rough sketch, okay?” Sam admitted, worrying the skin around her fingernails so she wouldn’t have to make awkward eye contact while she confessed that she was mostly talk.
All talk, maybe. She’d approach Coco about the promotion, give her best pitch, talk herself up, list all the many reasons she was the right person for the job.
But if Coco gave her the brush-off, Sam didn’t know what to do.
“I’m kind of operating on a wing and a prayer here. ”
Rather than laugh like Sam half expected, the woman hummed consideringly, fingers drumming softly against the elevator floor. “And you’re sure you want to be with her? Hannah? Like, really, really sure?”
Sam balked at her. “I wouldn’t have proposed if I wasn’t sure. Obviously, I want to be with her. She’s …” She swallowed over the lump of emotion in her throat. “She’s the love of my life.”
’Til death do them part, forever and ever, amen.
At the sound of her companion’s dubious hum, Sam sat up straighter, annoyance flaring to life inside her chest.
“If you say so,” the stranger said, dainty shoulders rising and falling.
“I do say so, okay? Stop—stop questioning it. I know what I want and it’s her, all right?”
Hannah was it . If it wasn’t her, it wasn’t going to be anyone. That was never the question.
“If she’s the love of your life, I imagine you’d do anything to get her back. Right?”
“Anything.” For once, Sam was able to easily agree. “I’d give anything to have Hannah in my life.”
“Better question, then.” She leaned in close, eyes wide, eager. “What wouldn’t you do?”
That was a ridiculous question, just the opposite side of the same coin.
“Not a damn thing,” Sam whispered ardently, heart rabbiting inside her chest as the woman’s smile sharpened.
“My name’s Daphne.” The stranger stuck out her hand, presumably for Sam to shake. “And I am about to make you an offer you won’t want to refuse.”