Chapter 11 Dan
DAN
The soundtrack to my nights is the squeak of the screws in this ancient futon. Every time I roll over, it wails beneath me.
And I roll over a lot.
I’ve never been a very good sleeper. It started when I was a kid. One night when I was six, my mom left for the hospital, in labor with my baby sister, and she never came back. I said this to a therapist once while describing my sleep problems, and she gave me a look that said, You see it, right?
I never went back.
Some people can’t sleep because their minds won’t stop working or because their bodies hurt.
I just…can’t. Have never been able to. And it’s never been too much of a problem for me.
My body seems to function fine on what sleep I’m able to eke out, and I’ve always just used my late nights and early mornings to my advantage.
All that studying got me the hell out of Cardinal Springs.
It took me to Princeton, then to Harvard for my MBA.
It took me to New York and some of the most prestigious investment banks in the world.
But now I’m stuck in this tiny room with floral wallpaper, listening to squeaking furniture and screaming crickets, with nothing to distract me.
Nothing but the memories of Marcel prepping me for my deposition and my conversation with Archer telling me I need a friend.
My older brother telling me I need a friend…
fuck, it makes me feel like I’m back in high school.
And that didn’t go so well for me the first time.
The few guys I hung out with back then all did like me and got the hell out.
The guys who are still here probably shoved me into a locker fifteen years ago.
But I can’t totally blame Cardinal Springs.
I haven’t had real friends in who knows how long.
Who has time for friends? When I still had a job and a life, my time was spent in the office and my social time was spent at happy hours and networking events, which I went to only because I needed to in order to succeed.
I’m only still in touch with Jameson, my college roommate, because he takes a semper fi approach to friendship: leave no bro behind.
At Princeton, he dragged me out to dinners and parties; when I was at Harvard, he texted regularly, asking for updates on my life; in New York, he forced me across the bridge to Brooklyn once a month for dinner with him and Marcel.
And thank god for that—if he hadn’t, I don’t know if I’d have a lawyer now. Hell, I’d probably already be in prison for something I didn’t do if I hadn’t let Jameson drag me out of my introvert hole.
I guess Archer’s right. I do need a friend. And not one who’s eight hundred miles away or involved in my defense or hoping to pierce my dick.
If only I knew where the fuck to find one.
The front door slams, followed by a heavy thud. I lie in bed, staring up at the ceiling, on the mattress that feels like it’s made of gravel. I remember that therapist’s face, begging me to connect the obvious dots.
I’ve been avoiding Carson ever since that morning in the kitchen when I damn near threw myself at her, as if what she needed was me.
But every time I see her—every time I catch a glimpse of her in her little pajama shorts, her thick strawberry-blond hair piled up into a messy bun, the lines of her pillow still on her face—all I can think of is her talking about how badly she wants to be pleased.
And how much I want to please her.
But she doesn’t need that from me. Nobody needs me, not in the state I’m in these days.
Maybe I need her, though.
I climb out of bed and pull on a pair of sweats, then pad down the hall.
I find Carson leaning against the front door in a pair of cutoffs and a pink tank top, her eyes closed and a wild smile on her face.
An enormous army-green duffel bag that looks like an emo teen attacked it with a Sharpie is resting at her feet.
There’s something electric about her, something I’ve never seen before.
She’s standing up straight, a glow in her cheeks, like she could take on whatever might come through that door.
Has she been out on a date? Has someone finally pleased her the way she deserves?
The thought makes my blood hot. All at once, I discover a hole in my “stay away form her” plan—it means I have no idea where she’s been or who she’s been with.
I can’t decide which possibility I hate more: another asshole treating her poorly and stranding her somewhere, or a guy actually taking her to bed and making her smile like that.
I need to fix this.
And after a beat, I realize I’m standing here, staring at her like a fucking creep.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
Her eyes flutter open as she gasps, because of course I snuck up on her and scared her. She scans me, her gaze pausing at my waist, her pupils dilating. Then she gives herself a little shake.
“Yeah, why?” She’s got a spark in her eyes that I haven’t seen before. She looks sort of feisty, bordering on aggressive. It makes my breath hitch in my chest.
“I just heard a bang, and it’s kind of late for you to be getting home,” I say, and suddenly that spark in her eyes turns into a flame, her brows knitting together.
She glares.
“Look, despite all evidence to the contrary, I am a functioning adult and not a walking disaster,” she says, then crosses her arms over her chest. It’s meant to be a so what gesture—an attempt at intimidation, maybe—but all I can see is the way her breasts rise when she breathes, her cleavage spilling over the low neckline of her pink tank top.
Dammit, head in the game, McBride.
I try to steer the conversation back to solid ground. “I know, I was just—”
She holds up a hand to silence me. “I can date, and drink, and redecorate my house all on my own.”
I blink, wondering what the décor has to do with this. I’ve clearly missed something.
“Right,” I try again. “And I was—”
“I don’t need a babysitter. Or a daddy.”
Fuck, the way she says daddy makes my mind short-circuit, which does not help me make sense of what is turning out to be a very strange conversation. Why did I even come out here?
I’m telling you to get a friend.
Oh, right.
I try to meet her eye, but Carson is glaring at me, so I shift my gaze back to my toes. Just talk to her. Just say what you mean.
“I was hoping we could be friends,” I try, then clear my throat. I search my mind for something to say that makes me sound less pathetic than I feel. “I think maybe, uh, you could use one?”
“I have friends!” she cries. “And yeah, they’ve both found the loves of their lives and are busy having mind-blowing sex all over town. But I’m happy for them and all they have going on, because that’s what friends do.”
This is going so much worse than I ever could have imagined. And then I go and make it even worse by letting the words “Are you drunk?” fall out of my mouth.
“No, I’m not drunk! I’m just full of kombucha, which I can’t decide if I like, because it kind of tastes like cider and it kind of tastes like feet!”
Fuck. I didn’t mean for this to happen. I meant to ask her to be my friend, not imply that I was doing her some kind of favor. This? This right here is why I don’t talk to people.
Because of course she has friends. She’s kind and funny and generous. Who wouldn’t want to be friends with her? The question is, who would want to be friends with me?
“I’m sorry, I just—”
“It’s fine, Dan. I’m sorry. I word-vomited all over you when I was drunk.
I made everything weird when you just need a place to crash.
And yeah, I’m a little bit adrift at the moment and it’s making me a little bit crazy, but I’m trying to channel that energy into something good.
” She kicks the duffel on the floor. “So you don’t have to worry.
You can hide from whatever the fuck it is you’re hiding from without any interference from me.
We’re just roommates. Ships passing in the night.
And speaking of night, I need to go to sleep, because it’s very much past my bedtime. ”
And then she stomps past me, the sweet smell of her shampoo and something earthy like incense wafting over me as she disappears down the hall, slamming her door behind her.
And I’m left standing in the middle of the living room, wondering how the fuck I screwed that up so royally.