Chapter 9 #2
"I, uh, I—or, we," he stammered, his words coming from over my shoulder, a distance too close to be considered polite.
He wasn't polite. No, that wasn't how I'd characterize my boss.
He was direct and assertive, and at times, abrasive.
"I need to get some work done. I completely lost yesterday and the coming week is packed, so I can't let that slide.
I should go home and—and catch up. You don't have to come with me.
You can do whatever you want. I'm sure you know that," he added, mostly to himself. "You've probably had enough of me."
Direct, assertive, abrasive. Also ooey gooey like a perfectly underbaked brownie.
"Not sure what you're planning on doing but I need to remind you about the one-hand situation.
" I shifted to face him. A thick layer of scruff covered his jaw and even though it was the worst idea in the world, worse than packing my life in the middle of the night and hopping on the first flight to the East Coast with nothing more than a Post-it note of explanation in my wake, I reached up and cupped that scruffy jaw.
Just for a moment. Just to feel him against my skin.
"I do believe it is I who hasn't been willing to be shaken loose. "
He laughed at that and I realized I enjoyed the feel of him laughing as much as the sound.
I pulled my hand away, shoved it in the pocket of my jeans.
At that, Ash's smile fell. His brows pinched and the warmth in his eyes—all that soft brownie goodness—chilled.
I glanced at the street again. It was one thing to be on the receiving end of that chill when it was his prerogative but another when it was self-inflicted.
"Do you want me to get a cab for you?" I asked, stepping closer to the curb. "I'm not sure but I don't think it's that far back to your apartment. We could walk but maybe you should probably take it easy, considering"—I tipped my head toward his shoulder—"all of that."
"It is too fucking hot to walk around the block, Zelda," he replied with that well-worn exasperation he favored so much. "Sorry but I'm in no mood to hike through the Common, down Charles Street, under an overpass, up Cambridge Street, and across Haymarket Square to my building."
I stared at him, blinking, my hand in the air as I hailed a cab. "Are you ever in the mood?"
His lips parted and his eyebrow bent up.
I didn't expect him to reply and he didn't, not when he held the car door open for me, not while I scooted across the seat, not when he dropped down beside me, not when I rattled off his address, and not when the driver lurched us forward despite the crush of traffic.
He didn't say a word to me in the cab and I didn't expect any.
When Ash didn't want to share his thoughts, he locked them down.
I imagined there was a large strongbox in his head and it was overflowing with thoughts and feelings he didn't want to examine.
And I was certain he believed that was a smart, efficient way to operate.
Not that I was much different. I didn't bury the things I didn't want to confront. I ran away from them. I found a brand-new disaster, another world to tape back together and resent for being broken in the first place, and then I'd run away from that one too.
Wasn't that it? Wasn't that the highly defensible thesis of Zelda?
And wasn't I bound to do it again? Every single time I thought I was finding the gig, the place, the people, the guy, the state of comfort with myself that would finally translate into being a grown-ass woman whose life was greater than the contents of a backpack and more stable than a Jenga game, I slipped right into those old patterns.
I bailed on grad school, took the go-nowhere gigs, settled in the wrong places, fell in with shallow friends who wouldn't notice I'd gone, hooked up with a guy who was no prize, and kept on wrestling with which part of this misshapen construct of myself I should smooth down next.
Some would say it was easy. I was taking the easy way out. There was nothing easy about this. It wasn't easy to meander from place to place, the totality of myself contained within a hard pass of a résumé and a storybook of tattoos and a bit of blue hair because I'd tried everything else.
This wasn't easy and it wasn't going to be easy when my current disaster ended. I'd have a pocketful of moody glares and gooey moments and my complete inability to know better.
"Wait," Ash called from behind me as I climbed out of the cab and marched toward his high-rise building, walking as fast as I could without running. "Zelda, wait."
I stopped at the doors but didn't turn toward him. "What are you working on today? How can I help? Better yet, let me page through your email and your calendar. I'll figure it out from there."
His hand met the small of my back and I startled, skittering forward a step. "Sorry," he murmured, his hand still pressed to my sweat-dampened t-shirt. "I didn't mean to—"
"Let's just go upstairs and get things sorted out.
" The words tumbled out in a breathless heap, each one more panicked than the one before.
Though it wasn't panic, not really. It was the moment when the rush of jumping without a fully sewn parachute transitioned from exhilaration to desperation and I started working double time to piece it all together before it was too late.
"You'll feel better when you have everything sorted. I always do."
Or, I imagined I'd feel better if anything was sorted, ever.
Glancing to the side, I saw him nod. His hand stayed fixed on my lower back as we walked through the upscale, modern lobby with its wall of succulents and slate, waited for the elevator, rode to the ninth floor.
I couldn't decide who this touch served, me or Ash. Hunger came in many forms and yesterday Ash was starved for comfort. I'd known that as soon as he'd fallen asleep on my shoulder. Today was different. The excitement was wearing off and I wasn't immune to my own needs anymore.
When we stepped inside the apartment and surveyed the wreckage of luggage we'd left not long ago, Ash barked out a laugh. "It looks like there was a struggle."
"The only thing missing is a few bloody handprints," I said, collecting Ash's laptop bag and setting it on the countertop.
He hung his keys on the tidy set of hooks near the door. "Some broken glass."
I righted the suitcases abandoned near the entryway bench. "Or a ransom note."
"Or?" he repeated. "Come on. It's and. And a ransom note, Zelda."
"Okay, sure," I murmured, pulling the handle on my luggage. "And a ransom note." I swept a gaze over the apartment. "I should put this away. Somewhere that isn't the middle of your entryway. If you still want me to stay—"
"I need a shower," he announced, cutting me off before I could open the escape hatch all the way. He shifted toward me, running his good hand over the straps keeping his shoulder in place. "Will you help me?"
I swallowed. I bit my lip. I stared at his hand for a moment. Remembered his hand on my back, keeping me still and—and safe. This new disaster, the one I'd barreled into with both hands, had the power to crush me. This was the one I wouldn't be able to save before splatter.
"With…?"
I glanced up at him. This was my chance.
My fingers were curled around the handle of my luggage and my purse was over my shoulder and I could walk away now.
I could leave. I could go somewhere—anywhere—and not risk another moment with a man who didn't know how to fight fair or feel his feelings or live outside his self-imposed idiosyncrasies for one second.
I could stop this and find a new disaster, a better, simpler disaster.
A disaster where I didn't fit and I didn't want to stay.
A disaster that didn't ground me with his touch because he knew—though he'd deny it—I needed it.
"With—what, exactly?"