13. DNA Technology #2
Muttering thanks once I’d found my keys, I moved to the locks. He followed me to the door, standing close enough for me to catch the faint hint of cologne beneath the more assertive scent of his rosemary shampoo.
I unlocked the top dead bolt, then the middle one, then the bottom, aware that each click ricocheted and echoed down the hallway.
Pushing open the door, I stepped inside. “Why don’t you?—”
Nakita’s voice rang out, surprising and interrupting me. “Who’s home? I’m in the kitchen. Don’t be alarmed by the smoke.” Her inflection was cheerful, so I assumed the smoke coming from the kitchen was purposeful.
But I stiffened, because she wasn’t supposed to be home, which meant I half hollered, half screeched, “What are you doing here?! Aren’t you supposed to be in Boston?”
Shit. I hadn’t excepted anyone. And of my roommates, Nakita was the one I wanted to see the least right now considering she was the hardcore chess fangirl.
“Sam?”
I looked at Andreas’s face; he wore his usual unemotional mask as I called back in a more modulated tone, “Yes. It’s Sam, and?—”
“Oh my God, Sam!” Nakita bellowed. “I have a bone to pick with you. I can’t believe you actually know Andreas Kristiansen! Why wouldn’t you tell me that you know the sexiest man in the world?”
Andreas stood perfectly still, holding my bag in one hand. Meanwhile, I cringed. With my whole body.
That’s right . A WHOLE-BODY CRINGE.
Nakita continued, “That man can fill out a pair of pants, am I right? So hot. And don’t even get me started on his chest and hands. Jesus Christ, I didn’t expect him to be so tall! I wanted to climb him. Please tell me you’re going to hit that?—”
Belatedly finding my voice, I cut her off, loud and frantic. “He’s standing right next to me, Nakita!”
Dead silence.
I peeked at Andreas again. His features hadn’t changed, but there was a suggestion—just a suggestion—of mortification in the way he kept his eyes glued forward. For Andreas, and what I was coming to understand about his lack of external expressiveness, this felt like a big reaction.
Andreas had been a bit arrogant about his chess abilities the last time he was here, but Nakita’s objectification now seemed to distress him greatly.
Is this modesty?
He had to know how handsome he was. How could he not?
Modest about his looks but arrogant about chess.
I unwrapped my scarf from my suddenly hot neck, whispering, “Sorry. I’m sorry. Are you okay? Do you want to leave?”
Andreas shook his head wordlessly, issuing me an exceedingly small, tight smile, and set my bag down on the entry table. I studied him as he shrugged off his coat, folding it over one arm with slow, precise movements.
“Andreas.” I stepped closer, my voice just above a whisper while I barely resisted the urge to place a hand on his forearm. “We can go. I didn’t know anyone would be here tonight. We can?—”
He shook his head again, a calculating gleam entering his eyes. “No. This might be for the best.”
I stared at him. “Uh, how so?”
Before he could respond, Nakita’s quick footsteps interrupted our whispered conversation.
She rounded the corner, her hands ensconced in oven mitts, the perfect portrait of domestic instability.
Her cheeks were flushed, her braids pulled back into a haphazard bun, and her eyes were wide with apology.
“Oh. Hey, Andreas. I, uh, didn’t know you were here.” The words tripped over each other, and she sounded completely mortified. Gaze wide with obvious worry, she blurted, “I am so, so sorry. That was gross and rude and uncalled for and I’m sorry.”
Saying nothing, Andreas lifted his chin in acknowledgment.
Thankfully, he looked slightly less embarrassed than he had a second ago.
Nakita turned to me, her eyes screaming HELP , and I mentally sent her a sympathy card.
But also, she needed to learn: Don’t say anything behind a person’s back that you wouldn’t say to their face. Ever.
Think that kind of shit to your heart’s content, but don’t say it.
“Where is the bathroom?” Andreas asked, voice low, attention sliding to me.
“Down the hall, first door before my bedroom. Leave your coat on my bed if you want.” I lifted my chin in the direction of my room.
He nodded, then sedately strolled away, eventually vanishing behind the door of the restroom, which closed with an unhurried, soft snick .
The instant the door closed, Nakita whirled on me. “Oh my God, I’m so embarrassed. Why didn’t you say he was here? I sounded like a total idiot. I literally called him the sexiest man in the world.” She smacked her lips with her oven-mitt-clad fingers. “I’m so stupid.”
Her embarrassment and worry cracked through my cloak of numbness and suddenly I was fighting a laugh at her discomfort. “You apologized. And he probably gets it a lot from people who don’t apologize.”
“No,” Nakita said, shaking her head, “nobody gets that a lot. People don’t just casually say that kind of thing in real life. Or they shouldn’t. Oh my God. Please tell him I’m not a gross lecher.”
I patted her arm, letting the contact linger. “You’re not a gross lecher. You’re just ... aggressively fangirly and inappropriate.”
Nakita gave me a wincing smile, then, with the finely honed skill of a lifelong gossip, scanned me from head to toe. “Speaking of sexy, what are you wearing? Holy hot sauce, Sam. You look incredible.”
I looked down at myself. The dress still clung to me, the color now more dark-pool-of-blood than burgundy in the dim entryway. My heels felt less “elegant” and more “torture device” with every passing minute, but I tried to stand up straighter.
“It’s a nice dress, right?” I said, voice tight, glancing toward the bathroom and wondering what to do if Nakita asked again about what was going on between Andreas and me.
You’ll lie, of course, and tell her you’re engaged. My stomach tried to sink. I wouldn’t let it. Lying to my roommates would likely be the least of my deceptions over the coming months. I needed to get used to feeling icky.
“It’s more than nice. Is that what you wore to dinner with him? Please tell me you just got back from a date, because both of you look like you stepped off a catwalk.” Nakita took a step back and clasped her oven-mitted hands together. “And his suit matched!”
The weight of the ring on my finger became a black hole, compressing every nerve ending in my hand into a singularity. I thought about hiding it, then decided hiding it would only make things worse later. Better to get this over with.
I took a deep breath. “Actually, there’s something I should tell you.”
Nakita leaned in, eyes bright, hungry for gossip. And, boy oh boy, did I have a whole damn seven-course meal to feed her. She was about to get heartburn.
Seeing no reason to delay, I held up my left hand, ring finger exposed. “We’re engaged.”
Her mouth fell open, her eyes bugged out, and for a long moment she stared at me wordlessly.
Again, I actively worked to feel okay about lying. Strangely, I didn’t have to try very hard. Huh.
“Engaged?” she finally squealed. “You’re engaged?!”
I nodded, pasting on a large smile. I didn’t feel like nodding or smiling, but I also didn’t feel like I had any other available options. That said, the lie didn’t even taste like a lie. It tasted oddly sweet, like the first sinister step toward my revenge.
* * *
After my reveal, Nakita worked her way through the five stages of gossip grief.
She started with denial (“You’re messing with me.
No way you’re engaged. Is this a prank? I’m not falling for it, Sam.
”), then anger (“This is so unfair, I tell you everything and you hold out on me like it’s a state secret!
”), then bargaining (“If you make me a bridesmaid, I’ll plan your bachelorette party.
”), then depression (“Am I going to lose you? Are you going to move to Europe? Will you even visit?”), and finally, acceptance (“Fine, I don’t need to be a bridesmaid. But I’d like an invitation.”).
What made this progression truly remarkable was that it all took place in the two minutes before Andreas exited the bathroom.
Now the three of us were sitting in the family room, Andreas and me on the couch, Nakita in the armchair.
She seemed to be attempting banal chitchat, and I wondered if the only thing keeping her from a full-scale inquisition was her earlier foot-in-mouth moment.
That, or the fact that Andreas and I, after sitting next to each other on the couch for a solid five minutes, had yet to make any physical contact.
Not a single graze of fingers, not a foot nudged, not even a moment of mutual eye contact.
We probably looked, in a word, estranged.
Nakita must’ve noticed, of course. She noticed everything. The more we failed to act “engaged,” the deeper her frown lines became.
My palms were sweating. This was not how a newly engaged couple was supposed to act. And since Nakita was the gossip in our group, she’d definitely tell everyone about our odd behavior.
Looking between us, she leaned forward, elbows on knees. “So, how did you propose? Sam’s never told us anything about your relationship. I want all the details.”
I opened my mouth, but Andreas beat me to it. “At Maison Lavande, after dinner.” He shrugged, voice even. Understated, but entirely believable. “I am not very original.”
Nakita’s eyes doubled in size. “Are you kidding? Maison Lavande is legendary! That’s so romantic. Sam, did you cry?”
I didn’t have to fake the blush. “A little. It was a surprise.”
“She cried,” Andreas confirmed, tone so dry it could have desiccated a houseplant.
Nakita’s frown intensified and her gaze shifted between us, full of suspicion. Apparently recovered from her earlier embarrassment, she asked, “Did you two get in a fight already? Is it about Sam’s propensity for sleepwalking?” The question was obviously asked as a joke, but her eyes were sharp.
“Samantha sleepwalks?” Andreas’s question sounded so earnest and innocent.