Chapter 14
FOURTEEN
New York greets us with rain, traffic, and a man in a yellow cab calling another man a “fucking idiot.”
I sit in the back of the car with my laptop bag pressed against my knees, watching gray streets and blurred brake lights slide past the window.
Across from me, Andrew is on the phone, which surprises exactly no one.
He’s been on the phone since we landed, speaking in clipped sentences about permits, investor expectations, a revised schedule, and something called “project optics,” which sounds like a phrase invented specifically to make me want to open the car door and throw myself out.
He also looks annoyingly put together for someone who took the same early flight I did. Dark suit. Clean shave. One hand resting on his knee, the other holding his phone to his ear.
Bossy.
Yes.
Stop thinking about it, you dick.
I shift in my seat and look out the window harder, like I’m in a sad music video or something.
Our first meeting of the day is with a group of investors in a conference room with floor-to-ceiling windows and coffee that tastes like ass. I sit beside Andrew with my laptop open, taking notes while he talks about timelines, projected returns, zoning, and revised construction phases.
It’s so fucking boring.
One man spends almost ten minutes asking questions about cost overruns, and I briefly consider just ending it right then and there.
But at the same time, I enjoy watching Andrew like this. People listen when he speaks. They lean in. They write things down.
I hate how attractive it is.
After that, there’s a site visit in the rain, where a project manager in a hard hat explains access points and temporary street closures while I try to keep my umbrella from turning inside out.
Andrew walks beside me, asking sharp questions under an umbrella of steel that doesn’t seem to care about the wind.
Then there’s a lunch meeting that isn’t really lunch, because no one eats enough for it to count.
I have three bites of a salad and spend the rest of the time updating notes while Andrew discusses neighborhood concerns with a woman from the local PR firm.
She says “community narrative” six times. I counted.
By late afternoon, my feet hurt, my hair has given up, and my blouse is wrinkled.
Andrew, unfortunately, still looks perfect.
We’re back in the car on the way to the hotel when he finally closes his folder and exhales, like he’s allowing himself exactly one human minute before the next thing.
“You kept up well,” he says.
I turn my head. “Thanks.”
The car goes quiet again.
Outside, New York keeps moving. Wet pavement, flashing lights, and people hurrying to escape the rain. Inside the car, I sit very still and try to act cool. Like, so chill with everything.
The car brakes suddenly, and my laptop bag slides off my knees. Andrew catches it before it hits the floor. Our fingers brush as he hands it to me.
Once we get to the hotel, we take the elevator up to our floor in silence. It isn’t awkward exactly, but it isn’t comfortable either.
“I have dinner with the investors at seven,” Andrew says as we finally reach my door.
“Okay.”
“It might run late.”
“Okay,” I say again, because apparently that is the only word I brought with me to New York.
His gaze moves briefly down the hallway before returning to me. “We should do the treatment afterward.”
For a second, I just look at him. “It’s only been three days,” I say.
“I know.” He slides the key card between his fingers, turning it once before stilling it against his palm. “But we’ll be busy all day tomorrow, and I’m not risking another fever spike.”
“Okay,” I say.
His eyes hold mine for a moment.
Then he gives me a quick nod and steps back. “I’ll see you after dinner.”
“Sure.”
He turns and walks toward his own room. I stand there with my key card in my hand, watching him disappear inside.
It’s almost midnight. I’m sitting on the hotel bed in pajamas, eating Pringles straight from the can, watching trashy TV. I finished preparing for tomorrow’s meetings two hours ago and haven’t moved since.
Andrew still hasn’t shown up.
I texted him an hour ago, asking if I should go to bed. His reply was short and to the point: no.
My phone rings, and for a split second, my stomach flips. Then I see the name on the screen.
Josh.
I stare at it, already tired.
“Hey,” I answer.
“Hey.” His voice is quiet. “Are you busy?”
I look at the TV, where a woman in a sequined dress is screaming at another woman in a sequined dress. “Not really.”
There’s a pause.
I close my eyes because I already know where this is going. “Josh, I thought we said we’d talk after New York.”
“I know,” he says quickly. “I know we did. I just—” He lets out a breath. “I can’t stop thinking about it, about you being there with him.”
There it is.
I sit up a little straighter, brushing Pringles crumbs off my pajama top. “This isn’t some romantic getaway, okay? It’s a business trip.”
“But you still have the virus. You still have to—” He trails off, but he doesn’t need to finish.
“Yes,” I snap. “I still have to treat the virus. You know, the virus that will literally kill me if it’s not managed properly.”
He doesn’t have anything to say to that.
Good.
“I’m sorry,” he says after a moment. “I just hate thinking about it.”
I laugh once, humorless and tired. “Yeah, well, imagine how I feel.”
The line goes so silent I can hear the faint buzz of the hotel air-conditioning, and suddenly I’m done. Completely, bone-deep done. With the guilt. With the awkwardness. With having to make him feel better about something that’s happening to me.
I rub a hand over my face. “Josh, I don’t think I can do this.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means this.” I gesture vaguely, even though he can’t see me. “Us. Whatever we’re doing. I can’t do it.”
A beat of silence.
“Are you breaking up with me?”
The word feels too big. Too serious. Like we had anniversaries and toothbrushes at each other’s apartments instead of a handful of dates and one uncomfortable, almost-relationship I kept trying to force into place.
“That’s—” I swallow. “Yeah. I am. I’m sorry.”
He hangs up.
I sit there for a while, staring at my phone until the screen goes black. I hate that the feeling rising to the surface isn’t sadness or even guilt.
It’s relief.
Annie was right. Whatever I felt for him wasn’t enough, and it never would have been.
I set the phone face down on the bed and sigh, reaching for the Pringles. If Andrew doesn’t knock on my door in the next half hour, I’m going to bed.
Probably.
Just before one in the morning, I hear a soft knock.
When I open the door and see Andrew leaning heavily against the doorframe, my first worry is that he’s drunk. And that’s a big, fat, red line for me. I will not do this with him if he’s drunk.
But as he takes a few steps inside, yawning so deeply his whole face changes, I realize alcohol isn’t the culprit.
It’s exhaustion.
He looks wrecked. Still handsome, of course, but wrecked all the same. His hair is slightly mussed, his tie is loose, and there’s a heaviness around his eyes I don’t think I’ve ever seen before.
He drops onto the edge of the bed and starts pulling off his tie. His gaze drifts to the takeout boxes on the desk.
“I bet your dinner was more enjoyable than mine.”
“How so?”
Andrew shakes his head as the tie comes loose. “The food was too fancy and too small. I’m still hungry.” He tosses it onto the chair. “And those men are the dullest people I have ever met in my entire life.”
I sit down beside him. “So why did you stay so long?”
He scoffs. “It wasn’t by choice, I’ll tell you that. I tried to leave multiple times, but they kept finding new things to discuss. They’re our investors, so I can’t exactly tell them I’d rather chew glass than hear another opinion about luxury market positioning.”
A laugh slips out of me.
His mouth twitches, but the expression is gone almost immediately.
“I’m sorry for keeping you up.”
I put a hand on his shoulder. “It’s all right.”
I stare at the hand that I just placed on his shoulder. I quickly remove it.
I’m getting way too comfortable.
“Christ.” Andrew rubs his eyes. “It feels like I’m going to fall asleep any second.”
“We’d better get a move on then,” I say, standing up. “I’m just going to brush my teeth, and then we can—” I make a vague gesture.
He nods once, eyes half-closed. “Fine.”
I’m gone for maybe two minutes. Long enough to brush my teeth, wash my face, and tell my reflection to get a grip. When I come back out, Andrew is asleep.
He’s lying on top of the covers, still in his shirt and slacks, one arm thrown over his stomach and his head turned toward my side of the bed. His shoes are still on.
I stop at the foot of the bed.
Then he lets out a slow, heavy breath, and I feel any lingering irritation I might have had soften.
He looks exhausted.
Utterly, utterly exhausted.
I should wake him. Probably. The treatment is the whole reason he came here in the first place.
But he looks like he needs sleep more than he needs anything else right now, and before I can overthink it, I walk over, carefully tug off his shoes, and set them by the bed.
I turn off the TV, switch off the lamp, and crawl under the covers on the other side of the bed.
For a while, I lie there in the dark, listening to the rain tapping softly against the window and the steady sound of Andrew breathing beside me.
The last thing I remember thinking is that this should feel strange.
But it doesn’t.
There’s movement.
A shift in the mattress. A rustle of fabric.
My eyes crack open, but the room is dark and blurry, and my brain is somewhere thick and warm and slow.
“I didn’t mean to fall asleep,” a voice says quietly. It sounds rough, far away, like it’s coming from the edge of a dream.
“Mhm,” I mumble.
“I should go.”
I make a sound that is probably meant to be a word. Then I lift one heavy arm and pat blindly at the space beside me. “Sleep,” I mumble.
“I really should get back to my room.”
“Nah.” I pat the mattress again. I don’t know why, but I want the man with the nice, low voice to lie down next to me.
I hear him move. The covers lift, and cold air invades my warm little cocoon. I frown.
“Cold,” I complain.
“Sorry.”
Then he’s there. Under the blanket now. Too stiff. Too far away. I reach for him, my fingers catching on his shirt, and tug.
He goes still.
I tug again. “Come here.”
For a second, nothing happens. Then the mattress shifts, and he moves closer.
That’s better.
I tuck myself against him, my cheek pressing against his shoulder, my arm draped across his stomach. He’s warm and solid. I want to crawl inside him. I make another sleepy sound and pull at him again until his arm finally, carefully, wraps around me.
There. That’s better.
“Carly,” he whispers, but his voice is softer now.
“Shh.”
The rain keeps tapping against the window. I know, somewhere far away, that I’m doing something I shouldn’t, but I’m too tired to think about it. So I press my face a little closer, hold on to him, and fall back asleep.