Chapter 15
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
We’re back sitting in Dr. Waitley’s office, opposite her. I can’t believe we only made it a week before we got caught. Still, that hasn’t stopped us from launching a full-blown PR campaign. We! Are! Together!
We haven’t stopped touching each other, both of us with a mutual understanding that we need to fix this poor performance from daytime Emmy to Oscar worthy.
Xander put his hand on my back as he guided me through the bedroom. I reached out and we held hands as we marched to the gallows. Xander pulled his chair close to mine when we arrived at her office so we could continue to present the picture of a perfect couple.
Will the simple act of Xander’s hands on me create a tectonic event that’s going to set alarm bells off at the Cal Tech Seismological Laboratory?
Hands that have gripped my waist. Dug into my pelvis. Rocked my hips.
Ignore it.
I look over at Xander, who unleashes his now infamous sickly sweet smile he used the last time we were in this room that won us a coveted spot in this sleep study, before he reaches over to brush a strand of hair from my cheek.
The act shouldn’t have any effect on me.
Because I am part of this performance. I see how the sausage is made.
I’ve seen him switch it on and more importantly, switch it off.
And yet, I can’t stop myself from swooning.
Stop that right now, Ash.
You’re in the equivalent of detention.
Xander’s ability to go from freaking the fuck out back in our sleep study room to doting, caring boyfriend is remarkable. I guess that’s why they pay him the big bucks. Although, I’d like to thank myself for the rousing half-time speech worthy of winning the Superbowl.
We can do this.
We’ve convinced Dr. Waitley before.
We can do it again.
We’ve just got to keep it as close to the truth as possible.
Now, my bravado starts to waver under Dr. Waitley’s piercing eyes as she studies us, her gaze methodically moving from one of us to the other. Like one of us is going to snitch. My fingers curl tighter around Xander’s, and he reciprocates. We’re in this together.
“Our sleep study is affiliated with UC Berkeley,” she says, her voice sharp like she’s lecturing a hall full of unruly students. “We are able to pay our participants because this sleep study enhances the educational programs.”
The guilt starts curdling my stomach juices. I feel physically ill.
“What is going on with you two?” Dr. Waitley comes on heavy, turning this detention into an interrogation.
“Can you explain what you mean?” Xander replies, his timing perfect. He didn’t jump to answer. He didn’t wait too long to question it. In this moment, I realize that Xander is a professional and he will get us through this.
“Setting off the heart rate monitors. Fighting like cats and dogs. Your actions are compromising the integrity of this sleep study.” She stares me down, like I’m the weak one.
It’s hard to believe this is the same Dr. Waitley who was rattled by my confession about our active sex life.
She is scary. A fierce protector of knowledge.
“We’re sorry,” I blurt out.
“This study will be submitted into the Journal of Sleep Research, with our students’ names on the article,” she says, stern.
Ben’s name will be on a sleep study with fake results that will stay with him forever, if we’re ever found out. Shit. Fuck. Shit. I didn’t think any of this through. Of course I didn’t. Because I am an awful, terrible person.
I look over at Xander, wondering if he’s thinking the same thing. And he looks so tired. The reason why he’s here in the first place. He qualifies. He deserves to be here. He needs to stay in this sleep study.
“I’m not going to lie, it’s been hard. With the insomnia,” Xander says, coming to bat for us.
She stares at us a little longer. And then her face softens.
“I’m sorry,” she says, shaking her head. “I know what it’s like.” It’s the perfect segue to Dr. Waitley’s origin story which, not going to lie, I would be interested in hearing. But wrong time.
Her eyes move between the two of us. Less interrogation. More sympathy.
Shit, this is actually working.
“Have you felt Xander pull away?” Dr. Waitley says, looking to me now.
No. He’s never pulled away from me in my life. Not during the friendship we had together. Not during our one night together. Not when he noticed me in the waiting room in the sleep study. Not when he got into my car to thank me for doing this for him.
If anything, he aways leans in. The only truth I have access to are my own actions.
“It feels like we’re not on the same page anymore,” I say, opting for vague.
“It was like, we were so good. And then she, I mean, I, just shut down,” Xander says, and I can’t help but feel he’s referring to my actions eleven years ago when I snuck out, effectively ending things.
“We just disconnected,” I say, nodding. “And we stayed disconnected.”
“Mmmmm,” Dr. Waitley says, an obligatory pause that has me wondering if she double majored in psychology. “When was the last time you did something fun together?”
We look at each other. But we don’t answer, worried we’ll say the wrong thing at the same time. She reads this silence as the answer: a long time ago.
“I want you to go on a date this weekend,” she says, and a nervous laugh escapes me before I can control myself. I glance at Xander, and he’s looking at me like he knows exactly what I’m thinking right now.
Objection: I don’t date.
“I need you to reconnect,” she says, breaking our silent conversation. We both snap our heads back to her “And you’re not going to reconnect at a sleep study filled with wires. Or in your day-to-day routine.”
Fuck. This isn’t a suggestion. This is a prerequisite of the sleep study.
I need to date Xander. I need to make an exception to my rule for the sake of the sleep study. For the sake of Xander’s insomnia and my paycheck.
I puff my cheeks and blow out a steady stream of air.
“Okay,” I say, agreeing with the minimal amount of enthusiasm possible that I will go on a date with Xander. “Let’s go on a date.”
“We’re not going on a date,” I say, Xander finally letting go of me.
He led me all the way down the hallway, past reception, through the doors, and dropped me off at the passenger side of his car. Because of course my car isn’t here. I got rip-roaring drunk yesterday, and I’ve got the shitty Uber star rating to prove it.
“Oh, we’re definitely not dating,” Xander says, practically laughing. His hand has returned to the back of his neck, again like he’s trying to rub me out of his life.
“Rude.” I cross my arms over my chest.
“You said it first,” Xander says, now actually laughing at me. “You can’t seriously be offended?”
I can. And I will. Of course, I don’t say that out loud.
Instead, I say, “We need a truce.”
“Can you be civil?” Xander says, without thinking. I shoot him a look. He holds his hands up, like they’re two giant man hand-sized white flags. A truce. “We can be civil.”
Then, he leans toward me. For a moment I think he’s going to kiss me and I hate that anticipation zips through my body, practically begging for Xander to be anything but civil toward me.
Thankfully, he reaches for the passenger door but it’s too late, I’m already flustered.
And if you think the hint of his slept-in-so-fresh-and-so-clean-scent that’s been marinating in his skin for the last twelve hours would lose its effect, well, you’d be wrong.
It acts like a narcotic, a shot straight to my nervous system.
I am intoxicated. In broad fucking daylight.
He opens the passenger door to his slick black BMW-something-series, then turns to face me. Waiting. I hesitate.
“I can Uber home,” I say, offering him an out. Instead of taking it, he rolls his eyes. “It’s fine,” I insist. Not that I want to get hung up on what constitutes as civil, but where does the humble eye roll fall?
“Get in the car, Hutchinson,” he says, tilting his head toward the open door. The act makes his curls flop, and if Xander and the curls want me to get in the car, then I will get in the car. “Our truce starts now.”
I get in.
Xander shuts the door and I’m free to sigh in peace, without scrutiny under our new civil act. I rest my head on the leather headrest and close my eyes, trying to process what the fuck just happened.
One moment, we’re getting freaky. The next, we’re snuggling. Then we’re being ordered to date. And now I’m his passenger princess. The destination? Somewhere civil, I guess.
I hear a click and turn around to see Xander putting his bag, and mine, in the trunk, and I try to ignore that this basic act of courtesy feels warm and fuzzy.
Once Xander gets in the car, I make a concerted effort to thank him. He puts on a pair of Wayfarers that make him look like a heartbreaker before looking over at me and throwing me an equally concerted, “You’re welcome.”
“Ten points for basic manners, Captain America,” I say, the memory of his thick thighs wearing the hell out of those boxer shorts a few nights ago.
“Ten points for recognizing them,” he volleys right back.
“Thank you,” I say, acting like it was a compliment of the highest order and not some half-baked diplomacy wrapped around something pointed. Well, joke’s on Xander because I barely recognized it.
Of course, I don’t say any of this out loud.
We’re mere minutes into this truce, and I will not take the bait.
But I do watch as Xander’s lips curl at the ends.
Like he’s getting off on working me up. So I decide the safest place to look for the sake of our truce is out my window. The sun is full throttle in the sky.
“Another day, another heatwave,” I say, evoking the social code of surface-level conversation. The weather.
“There’s supposed to be a cool change tonight,” Xander says, equally mundane. “Thunderstorms and all.”
“In Los Angeles?” I question as my retinas slowly begin to melt without my sunglasses. “Doubtful.”
“That’s what the weather app says.”
“Like they ever get it right,” I say, before remembering that there’s a treaty that’s relying on me filtering myself.
I look at Xander, who’s concentrating on navigating a lane change.
The blinker like a countdown, reminding me that this conversation, like every other one, it seems, is a ticking time bomb.
Once we’re safely in Xander’s lane of choice, he looks at me for a moment before returning his eyes to the road.
“That’s an interesting perspective, and I can see how it could be interpreted that way,” Xander says, his tone measured.
Every consonant precise. I feel like I’m getting the full lawyer treatment right now.
And I look at the clock on the dash. Yep, that was a whole minute into our truce before Xander managed to get under my skin.
“If by ‘interesting’ you mean because we practically live in a desert,” I say, unable to stop myself from testing how far Xander will go with this lawyer word salad.
“That’s an important point,” Xander says, noncommittal. And the filtered version of Xander somehow pushes my buttons more than the fighting. Or the fucking around. “It definitely adds depth to the conversation.”
And just when I think he’s done, he says, “Let’s revisit this conversation this evening and see how it all ties in.”
Well, it’s official. Xander’s gone full lawyer bot on me.
I sigh. That’s fine. That’s just fine.
In fact, it’s more than fine. This is exactly what we need to get through the rest of this car ride, and sleep study, without any more drama.
I close my eyes and lean my head on the headrest. Disengaged.
Xander takes the hint and doesn’t talk. The robot lawyer is learning.
The inviting smell of coffee has me flinging my eyes open like my life depends on it. Because it does. I must have fallen asleep. And this hangover headache is throbbing.
I look at Xander, who’s holding out a takeaway cup of coffee. And it’s warm. Not iced.
“Cappuccino,” Xander says, handing it to me. How’d he know? I finally look up to see we’re in front of Roasting Warehouse. The café that’s half a mile from my house.
You can’t fault lawyer logic.