Chapter 17
It’s been three days.
Three days since he felt her body pressed against his, full length, nothing between them except the words he absolutely can’t say to her.
Three days since she slipped out of bed and went to work and he woke up to cold sheets beside him.
Three days since Julie set off on the next leg of her tour, so his bedroom is free again and there’s nothing forcing them to be near each other, at least not without a wall or two between them.
It’s been the longest three days of his entire life. And that includes the three-day hike he did in the Peruvian desert because it looked cool on a buddy’s Instagram and his feet nearly melted into the sand.
How he ever lived without her before, he has no idea, but now that he knows what it’s like to be with her, and not just having the most mind-blowing sex of his entire life, but simply being with her, Xavier knows he’s addicted, and quitting cold turkey is fucking torture.
He could be working on his thesis, making progress on that book he wants to publish one day, even just . . . packing up his shit that has suspiciously managed to spread from his suitcases and boxes around the apartment in the time he’s spent here.
It was supposed to be temporary, but he finds that his life seems to slide up against hers and fit, if not perfectly, then at least without too much chaos.
Then again, maybe it’s not his stuff that’s the problem.
Maybe it’s just . . . him.
Because as much as he’d like to blame himself for the three days that they’ve barely seen each other, just call himself a fucking coward – but one with self-preservation instincts at least – it’s not him doing the avoiding.
It’s her.
And that’s . . . unacceptable.
Not . . . not that she has to see him. If she doesn’t want to, that’s her call, as much as it rips his heart to shreds.
But . . . he’s desperate to know why.
If he’d done something she didn’t like, even though she very much seemed to be enjoying herself, or if he made her uncomfortable or, God fucking forbid, if he’d somehow pressured her into something that she didn’t really want . . .
He’d never forgive himself for that.
Because what else is he supposed to think?
Bianca isn’t the kind of woman to just . . . run away. She faces things head on; always has in all the time he’s known her. So . . . it had to have been something he did or said or . . . didn’t do or say.
Fuck.
He pushes away from the desk and his laptop, the screen having gone black from the complete lack of progress he was making while staring at the mass of words, the lines blurring and blending as his mind spins out of control.
Maybe . . .
He flops back onto the bed and grabs the book he’s been reading off the nightstand, the first in that series she told him about.
Amelia Peabody Emerson’s namesake is hilarious and badass.
Bianca was right, the history is solid, but .
. . he can’t make his mind stop racing. Tossing the book to the side, he picks up his phone and swipes and taps until her contact comes up.
The last text message he sent was from the other night, after that ridiculous farce of a gender reveal, but before the concert.
He’d run out to Ralph’s and asked if they needed anything.
She just responded with a little cat and a fish-bone emoji, which had him scouring the aisles for Amelia’s favorite cat food.
And as much as he’s kind of sweet on that cat, the idea that the last text exchange they have could be that meaningless and ordinary feels . . . wrong.
God, he’s so gone on this girl.
He just needs to suck it up and talk to her, and maybe a quick text could do the trick.
—Are we okay?
He types it out and stares at it, but doesn’t hit send.
It’s so glib and impersonal and she’s literally on the other side of the wall he’s facing.
He should just go over there and knock on her bedroom door and ask if he fucked up and how he can make it up to her . . . except to make sure not to sound suggestive if he says that last thing because based on the last three days, that’s the opposite of what she wants.
Ding!
“Shit,” he curses, nearly dropping his phone when it goes off in his hand.
It’s not Bianca.
It’s a text from . . . Paolo?
Paolo Esposito.
His boss.
Well, really his former professor and future boss. He doesn’t technically work for him right now.
Paolo’s a world-renowned archaeologist, the man who brought him along on his first summer dig, who showed him the right way to excavate, and whose philosophy of maintaining and housing artifacts in their home countries took hold so completely, Xavier found himself ignoring the call of some of the top archaeology programs in the world, to give preservation and repatriation, through native museums, libraries and archives, his full attention.
—Hey X. I’m in town. Dinner?
Shit.
Well, not really. He likes Paolo. The man is more of a father than his actual dad ever was, but how will he explain all of this? Especially if Bianca’s not speaking to him.
Although maybe that’s better. Might be easier if Paolo doesn’t know about this clusterfuck of a fake engagement with the love of his life. Might be? Shit, it definitely will be.
—Sure.
—Nunziata’s at 7? Also, what’s this I hear about you being engaged?
Shit.
Really, he should have known better. Academia’s a smaller town than Stars Hollow. Of course it got back to Paolo that he’s engaged, or fengaged, or whatever he is right now.
—Nunziata’s at 7. It’s a long story.
—I bet it is. She coming with you? Reservation for two or three?
It’s as good an excuse as any. So instead of sending her a text from across the same apartment, he pushes up out of his chair and makes the ten-step walk from his bedroom to hers. Raising his hand to knock, he almost raps her in the forehead when she opens the door.
“I . . . I heard you walk over here and stop,” she says, looking somewhere over his shoulder instead of meeting his eyes.
She . . . doesn’t look great.
Well, scratch that, she always looks gorgeous, but there are some dark circles under her eyes, her hair is somehow both frizzy and flat around her shoulders, and her ratty old Cal Bears t-shirt and USC Trojans sweatpants speak volumes.
Fuck.
He really must have screwed up.
Badly.
“I . . .” He can’t ask her about dinner, not yet, he has to make this right, whatever it is.
“I’m sorry if I . . . I mean, clearly I did do something, but you gotta know, Bianca, I’d never hurt you on purpose and whatever it was .
. . I had no idea, not that it’s any excuse, but . . . shit . . . Are you okay?”
That has her eyes darting to meet his, wide and surprised.
“What? No . . . no, that’s not—Jesus, Xavier, absolutely not. You didn’t do anything wrong. You did more right in one night than most guys have ever . . .”
“Yeah?” he asks, an eyebrow ticking up, somehow both enraged at the men who came before him that didn’t prioritize her pleasure and thrilled that he was the one who was able to make her feel that way.
“Yes,” she affirms, wrapping her arms around her middle, hugging herself tightly. All he wants to do is replace her arms with his and hold her close and make everything okay. “Is that why . . . why you wouldn’t talk to me, though, because you thought you hurt me?”
“I just figured . . .” He trails off. “You left for work and you didn’t say anything and then when you got back, you avoided me, and I figured I did something to make you uncomfortable.”
“More like I did something that made me uncomfortable,” she mutters.
“What?”
“It’s my fault and I’m sorry. I think . . . Remember when you said things could get confusing if we don’t, you know, have boundaries, and I agreed and then we . . .”
“Proceeded to ignore it completely?”
“Yeah . . . I think you were probably right and I’m sorry if I .
. . Things just got a little intense and I didn’t know what to do, so I panicked, and then when you didn’t say anything, I convinced myself that you agreed and that we just needed some time and space and I didn’t mean to make you think .
. . No, please know it was the opposite of that, even if it was . . .”
“Was what?”
“A mistake,” she whispers. “Even if it was a mistake.”
“Yeah,” he agrees, because if this is what happens when they sleep together one time, three days of agony while he contemplates how miserable he’s going to be once she’s out of his life for good, then .
. . yeah, it was a mistake. But even though it’s true, that doesn’t mean they have to wallow in it, at least not more than they already have. “It was a good mistake though.”
Ah, there it is, the affectionate eye-roll and a small smile that she bites back with her teeth against her bottom lip. Okay, okay, that’s good.
“It was a very good mistake. But . . . probably one that shouldn’t happen again.”
“You’re . . . probably right.”
“I usually am,” she shoots back and he takes an instinctive step closer.
“That’s true,” he says and when she meets his gaze again, it nearly knocks him over.
Fuck. Her eyes.
He steps back and she does too, giving herself a little shake.
“Sorry, I . . .” he starts.
She nods. “Yeah, me too. We just need to . . . not.”
“Right,” he agrees.
“Why were you, uh . . . Did you come here just for this?” she asks.
“No. I mean, I was about to text you actually because I was being a chickenshit about it, but then my mentor, Paolo, he reached out. He’s in town and he wants to meet up for dinner. You’re invited, obviously, if you want to come.”
“Paolo, from all your adventures in Turkey and Rapa Nui and . . .”
“. . . and Ireland. Yeah.”
“I’ve always wanted to meet him.”
“You have?”
“I can’t even count how many stories you’ve told about the guy. He’s basically a mythological hero to me right now. It’ll be cool to see that he’s flesh and blood and not a figment of your imagination.”
“Okay,” he says. “Then you’re gonna meet him tonight, at seven.”