Chapter 28
Noah
Lucy and I work around each other like a perfect symphony. Mateo's at work and Silas had to go to repair one of his laptops, since it wasn't loading well. His graphics programs on his computer eat up a lot of space, and need way more computing power than mine, so his gear ends up needing repairs and to be replaced twice as fast.
I feel guilty because I know he's annoyed he's back at the computer store for the second time this month, but it's nice to have Lucy all to myself. We've said all we can say about her work, talked through every scenario and possibility, and at this point, she just needs to decide for herself what's best for her. We'll support her either way.
It would be nice, however, if she told us which way she's leaning. But she stopped talking about it after brunch with her friends yesterday, and I don't want to keep pushing.
So, instead of talking about work, I took the afternoon off, and together, we're learning how to make bread. We'd taken up cooking together early into the relationship. We all share dinner responsibilities, but Lucy and I play around with elaborate recipes together and it gives us time to spend with each other that I don't get when it's the four of us.
Plus, we work well together. I surprised her with this hundred-year-old sourdough starter, and if I didn't already know she's the girl of my dreams, she squealed in excitement and immediately ran out to a bookstore to buy three books on bread making, and I knew she was just… it. Infectious joy over tiny little things, over-the-top sweet and full of life. I love her.
We've been kneading for the last ten minutes, our fingers finally less sticky with dough. For some reason the feeling of the sticky dough between my fingers makes me shudder. It's a sensory thing, but it was too late by the time I realized it, I was already knuckle deep in starter. Lucy graciously promised to do this part in the future, but as much as I didn't like kneading, it was nice to do something monotonous. Writing lines of code, spending hours on the computer, in front of screens, makes my eyes burn and my brain overload, so the break is necessary.
A knock on the door has us both freezing in place.
"Are we old?"
"Excuse me?"
"I can tell by the look on your face you don't want to deal with company or answer the door. Neither do I. Are we old?"
The second knock has me wiping the dough off my fingers before I wash my hands in the sink. Over my shoulder, I tell her, "I'm not old. You're definitely not old." She's only twenty-seven to my thirty-one. I'm a year older than Silas and Mateo. "But you're right, I don't want company. You expecting anyone?"
"Nope."
She keeps kneading the dough, and I peek through the peephole before swinging the door open. It's Gerry, one of the daytime receptionists.
"Hey man, everything okay?"
"I'm sorry to bother you, but Mr. Torres requested if any more packages showed up that I bring them directly up. Same courier, but I got the name of the kid who dropped off the package this time. Not sure if that helps."
I look at the black-wrapped package in his hands and my heart sinks. Christ, I thought we were done with this bullshit.
"Thank you Gerry." I take the box. "I appreciate you bringing this up yourself."
"It's no problem. As I said, the delivery was the same service as before, and I got the names, but from what Mr. Torres told me, that information wasn't helpful in finding out who's actually sending these."
I'm surprised Mateo shared that much considering his reluctance to do anything about the packages. I thank him again and turn back to Lucy. I wouldn't keep her from this but I do wish I could spare her the worry.
Her hands pound the dough, which I don't think you're supposed to do—the instructions were pretty clear, you're caressing, pushing and pulling, but she's beating on the wet mound of sticky flour like this mess is the bread's fault.
"Go on then. Open it up. Let's see what nonsense she's come up with this time."
"I don't understand what she gets out of this," I grumble, ripping open the package, preparing myself to see some lewd photo of Mateo. "I mean, it sounded like, after you and Silas—"
My words evaporate. A clawing rage billows out of me, and I have to resist the urge to fling the framed picture across the room, to get it out of my hands.
"What is it?"
I try to hide it from her, but I'm not quick enough. Her hands are sticky but she doesn't wash them. After seeing my reaction, she tugs the frame out of my grasp, and reluctantly, I let her.
She stares at the picture, going through the motions I'd go through if I was her. For me, it's just pure rage and anger. For her, it starts with horror. Then disgust, and discomfort. Eventually, fear.
"We'll put a stop to this. Once and for all. Obviously, she didn't get the memo."
I watch as she turns in on herself. She doesn't crumble, or start fanning herself like she used to. But she's definitely stressing. I can't help her though, I can't take that away.
She keeps working the dough, and I pull out my phone and text the guys. I keep it somewhat vague, but encourage them to get home as soon as they can. They both, rightfully, ask a million questions and sound worried, but I tell them Lucy's okay, but another picture showed up.
They assume it's of Mateo. It's not.
The dough gets wrapped in a special pan and she sets it aside on the counter, then meticulously cleans the counter, cleaning all remnants of flour.
After she finishes, she moves on to the living room, picking up and fluffing pillows, refolding blankets that don't need to be refolded, keeping her hands busy.
When she disappears down the hall, I follow. I sit back in a chair in the corner of her bedroom while she tidies up unnecessarily. I let her keep herself busy, but when she shakes, getting frustrated with the blanket, I finally make her stop.
She doesn't cry, but her breathing comes in rapid pants, so I hold her close.
"It's going to be okay, Lucy. I promise."
"I know. I know. It's just… why does she hate me so much?"
"I don't know if she does. I think she's jealous. And petty. She's a lot of things. But she doesn't hate you. No one could hate you."
Lucy laughs, but it's hollow. "It's funny, we were just talking about that at brunch yesterday. When you're famous, however infinitesimal that fame is, people out there will hate you. People definitely hate me. I just… I just wish I could make her stop without…"
"What is it?"
She sits down on the edge of the bed. "Mateo's going to blow a gasket. I wish I could have stopped this the easy way. Now, who knows what he'll do."
I wrap my arm around her shoulder and she cuddles against me. I kiss her temple, her hair in the way. "You don't need to worry about any of it. And that threat out there—" I point down the hall, recalling the AI image of Lucy in the frame. Lying on the ground, completely naked, what looked like white come all over her face, a dead look in her pretty blue eyes… blood dripping out of a neck wound, like someone had slit her throat. Bile rises up from my stomach as I think about the picture.
I'm so fucking angry.
And, honestly, terrified. I know we can protect Lucy, but why would Delaney go to these lengths just to hurt her? This was an actual death threat. The pictures of Mateo were disturbing, sure, but they were all predatory and sexual in nature. This is way worse.
I'm so fucking mad, but I don't want Lucy to feel that. So I hug her and kiss her temple and reassure her that everything will be fine.
Until the guys get home, and all hell breaks loose.
And it's not just Mateo losing his shit, it's Silas, too. A vase gets smashed. There's shouting. And all of it makes Lucy flinch and revert back to her old habits. She's stressing out, letting the guys yell and rage around her, without any thought to how it's affecting her. The pictures are of her, after all.
"Will you both shut the fuck up for two seconds and rein it in?"
They both stop and look from me to Lucy, who I pulled back into my arms on the couch, then at each other.
Their rage doesn't dissipate, but it's contained. For now.
"I think we need to call the cops," I tell them. Silas tries to argue. So does Mateo, who insists on calling his lawyer.
I roll my eyes, "Not everything can be solved with money, Mateo."
"Fuck you. And I'm past suing her. We don't need to call the cops to file a restraining order and press charges for sexual harassment."
"I agree with Noah," Lucy says quietly. She feels so fragile in my arms, like she's folding in on herself.
"You want to go to the cops?" Silas asks, sitting on the coffee table in front of her. He takes her hands into his, rubbing her wrists.
She nods. "I think we should do both. Mateo, you should call your lawyer. But that picture really freaked me out. It's not just the… ickiness of it. There's real rage there. I just…" She sucks in a breath, pulling her hands from Silas's, wrapping them around her throat, as if she can feel the slice the image portrayed.
"I told you, we won't let anything happen to you. You're safe with us. But if you'd feel even safer going to the police, we'll do that."
"Okay. Let's do both then."
Silas sighs and looks back at Mateo, who's furiously running his hand through his hair. He looks unhinged.
"Matty, you call your lawyer first thing in the morning. Whatever you need to set into motion, and make sure you tell him everything, all the way back to the cheating pics. Noah and I will go to the police station with Lucy. Hell, maybe they'll have better luck tracking down whoever paid for the package. They might have to do some actual investigating," he grumbles, implying they likely won't do shit.
But it's a start.
Lucy's quiet the rest of the night, but she doesn't retreat inside herself completely. And honestly, if she did? This was the kind of fight or flight situation our minds were supposed to react with anxiety, so I wouldn't blame her a bit if she spiraled. But she does well, all things considered.
We order takeout and she picks at her food. Later, Lucy asks if she can sleep with me tonight. They want to hold her too, but she's been clinging to my arms all afternoon, and I don't want to let her go for anything.
We end up staying awake well into the night, cuddled in bed together under the covers. We talk about where we grew up and what our families are up to. She tells me her relationship with her mother is fine, but they rarely talk. I got that impression when all this started and she shouldered the burden alone, before we all came into her life.
We talk about anything and everything, until she can no longer suppress her yawns. We pass out together, holding each other close.