7
I get home after work the next day to find Andy seated in the corner armchair.
He’s been working out of that chair all week since I commandeered his home office, but he seems comfortable enough.
There’s a standing lamp next to him, casting warm golden light across the side of his face and onto the manuscript in his lap.
His brow is furrowed in concentration, and part of me wants to place my finger there and smooth out the deep crease.
But I don’t, because that would be crazy.
In defense of my crazy thoughts, it’s been a hard day.
Not just because of my presentation to the board—which could have gone better—but because I kept catching myself thinking about last night at the Gardener.
The feeling of my cheek against Andy’s chest, the press of his fingertips on my back, then the abrupt way he pulled back, stopping tipsy-me before I could make things weird between us.
I really don’t want to make things weird between us. Especially when I’m living here. Especially when, even after all these years, I still want to reach up and gauge my own eyes out every time I think about the night I made a move on him and was soundly rejected.
I was very drunk, in my defense! But the rejection was… so awkward. And we’re much better as friends, anyway. Uncomplicated and easy.
Importantly—as I keep reminding myself—nothing actually happened last night. He saw that I was stressed and gave me a hug. That’s the end of it. Especially now that Elliot’s not in the picture, why should I feel guilty about a hug? Friends can hug. Friends can totally hug.
Andy glances up at me over the top of his glasses, and I realize I’ve been staring at him.
I snap my eyes away way too fast and say, “Hey, I’m home.”
“Yeah, hey—Soph, shoes.”
“Oh, right.” I backtrack a few steps to take my boots off before I can traipse salt all over Andy’s nice floor.
“You good?” he asks.
“Yeah, sorry, just a hard day and I’m feeling kind of out of it.”
“What made your day hard?”
I didn’t actually mean to bring that up. Rats.
“Just the board meeting was stressful, but it’s fine. I’m gonna decompress in my room.”
I start heading that way, but Andy interrupts my momentum when he says, “Decompress out here. I’m just gonna be reading. I have a little work to finish.” He gestures to the manuscript on his lap.
I’m scanning my brain for a sentence that means I think I should give us some space after last night’s prolonged public snuggle without using any of those words, but I’m not quite fast enough.
Andy notices my hesitation and responds with a heartbreaking, “I mean—but—if you’d rather be alone that’s fine.”
And we can’t have that.
Because here’s the thing: You know how sometimes you meet a puppy and it’s fresh-faced and new to the world, and it loves you instantly because it loves everything?
And it comes up to you all wiggles and licks and sunshine, and you pet it and scratch it and coo and smile, and then it goes on to offer wiggles and licks to the next person too because it's only ever known good in the world?
Andy is not like that.
Andy is your friend’s fifteen-year-old dog who hates toys and is blind and will probably bite if you move too fast. It has never liked a single house guest, and usually gets locked in the bedroom when people come over.
But when that elderly, satanic, gremlin of a dog comes up to you for a tentative sniff, you bet you’re going to offer your hand out slowly, on its terms.
And when—one day—it finally cuddles up next to you on the couch, placing its scratchy little dog butt against your thigh because it’s decided you’re safe—that’s when you feel truly, irrefutably special.
And yes, Andy and I have been friends for almost a decade, so it’s not like if I say “I’d rather read alone in my room tonight” he’s going to think I hate him or something.
But I just don’t have it in my heart to turn down any offer of affection extended by him, even if that offer is simply reading in silence together.
So I say, “No, I don’t want to be alone.”
The better part of an hour goes by before Andy finally closes his work for the day.
He excuses himself to change into pj’s and comes back out in a black t-shirt and red flannel pants.
I’m already in my very stylish gray cotton athletic shorts, wool socks, and a purple t-shirt with Hudsonville Read-A-Thon across the front.
Once he’s sat back down on the far side of the couch, he taps my knee with his socked foot and asks, “How’s your book?”
“It’s good,” I say, folding in the edge of the dust jacket to hold my place, “but it’s the only one I brought so I’m trying to make it last.”
“You could go to the library. Or I can lend you something when you’re done. I have books, you know.” He points towards his chest. “Editor.”
A thought hits me like a minor epiphany. I look around the apartment again to make sure I’m not out of my mind before I say, “You know what? I’m just realizing that you don’t have any bookshelves in here.”
“They’re all in my room.” He nods his head towards the closed bedroom door. “Never know when I’ll have a middle-of-the-night reading emergency.”
“Ah, of course. Well in that case, yeah, thanks. I’ll take you up on that.”
I’m opening back to my place in the book when he asks, “Are you ready to tell me what’s bothering you?”
“Nothing’s bothering me,” I reply, confused.
“You said the board meeting was stressful.”
Right. I forgot I mentioned that. And I kind of assumed he would forget too.
(Elliot would have.)
“Oh, it was nothing, really. Some of the trustees are just annoying, but I don’t need to whine about it all night.”
“I bet Lia would have them killed for you,” Andy suggests, in a small nod to our ongoing bit about Lia’s relatives being in the Italian mob (they’re not) and a large nod to her abrasive personality.
“No,” I chuckle, “it’s not all that serious. Honestly, most of it was my fault.”
“I doubt that.”
“No really.” I put the book down on the coffee table then turn to face him, sitting cross-legged on the couch.
He mirrors my position, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees.
“First, they asked way more questions about the budget than I thought they would. Like I’m not the budget person, ask Raphael! That’s literally not my job.”
I notice I’m yelling for no reason and ratchet down my volume.
“Then one of them had a question about this video we’re showing at the launch—and this is the part that’s on me, because I’m pretty sure Shawna did tell me about that question. I almost definitely wrote it down, but I guess I lost that sticky note somewhere…”
Andy tucks his lips between his teeth, barely suppressing his smile—the smug jerk. I give him a glare that says I don’t want a lecture on organization right now.
“Anyway, the worst part was actually after the presentation was over. There’s this trustee named Jeff who’s a biologist and really old—not to be ageist or anything but I feel like it’s a salient part of the story. And he came up to me and was all like, Good job today, honey.
I bet your parents are really proud of you.”
I’m looking down at my hands as I continue.
“Then he said it’s a shame I didn’t pursue a real science career because I might not be challenging myself enough here, or something like that.”
When I glance up again, Andy is looking at me with focus. He doesn’t respond—at least not yet—because he’s not listening to respond; he’s listening to understand.
“I think he meant it as a compliment,” I explain, “but it hit a nerve. Like… this is a science career. I’ve always wanted to bring science to kids, and I’m doing it. It just really made me feel bad. And who talks to a professional colleague like that? I bet your parents are proud of you.
Are you kidding me? There’s no way he would’ve said that if I was a 26-year-old man instead of a 26-year-old woman. And the worst part is, I was so shocked that I just froze with this nervous smile on my face. I hate confrontation so much.
I don’t even know what I would do differently if I could go back. I guess I just have to let it go.”
“If you want to let it go, then let it go,” he says plainly. “But if you want to be mad, then be mad. You have every right.”
“No, no.” I wave a hand between us. “Being mad is just going to make my night worse and bring you down with me. Just… that guy sucks.”
“That guy sucks,” Andy affirms. “Fuck him. The museum is lucky to have you. And even the biggest asshole on the board realizes it, even if he says it in a condescending asshole way.”
It’s a sweet thing to say, but I’m feeling so deflated from the whole endeavor that I can’t bring myself to offer more than a half-smile.
Something about the look on my face has Andy reaching over to take both of my hands in his. “Hey, don’t be sad, okay? I’ll make dinner. I have pizza dough—how about pizza and a movie?”
And I guess I’m more tired than I realized, because I feel tears starting to prick at the back of my eyes. But I am not going to cry over something as stupid as this. So I fight them back and say, “That would be great. Thanks.”
Andy squeezes my hands once before letting go and heading into the kitchen.
It occurs to me then that maybe I’m not tired at all. Maybe I’m just not used to having someone take care of me every day, even in these small ways.
“What do you want to watch?” he asks as he turns the dial on the oven.
I clear my throat, then ask, “Is it masochistic that I’m in the mood for sci-fi after the day I had?”
“I thought I was supposed to be the masochist here.”
“Well, you did just voluntarily subject yourself to that story about my day, so you’re right, you’re still number one.”
“Sophie, it’s fine.” He opens the fridge and peers inside. “People like you have to get mad once in a while.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know how you are,” he replies. It’s almost dismissive, as he starts to pile pizza ingredients onto the counter.
“No, I don’t,” I insist, and I don’t know if I should be worried or offended about wherever this conversation is going. I turn my body towards him—chest pressing into the couch cushions—in time to see him shrug.