Chapter 22
TWENTY-TWO
Andrew told me to take the day off, which has never happened before.
It actually feels a little criminal to lie down on the sofa in the middle of the week. Like someone from HR might kick down the door and point at me accusingly.
This was a test, Miss Michaels. You failed.
I snuggle deeper under the patchwork blanket and try not to think about what happened the night before.
For a while, I just lie there and stare at the ceiling, listening to the muted sounds of traffic outside and the occasional creak from somewhere in the apartment.
My body feels heavy in that strange, hollow way it does after being sick, like all my bones have been removed and replaced with wet sand.
Eventually, I turn on the TV, trying to find something to occupy my post-fever mind, but I’m immediately met with a news report about the stupid-ass virus that’s fucking up my whole life, so I shut it off again.
I go stand by the window and stare down at the people walking by, like a creep. Once I’m bored with that, I try to see into the apartments on the other side of the street, like a mega-creep. Then I realize I probably look like I’m haunting the building, so I step away.
I try to read a book, but my head is too fried to concentrate. I try to clean, but I’m too fatigued. I try to shower, but I almost faint.
I end up on the couch again, this time with my phone in hand, watching a makeup tutorial I will never replicate, when a text comes through.
Mr. Bennett
How are you?
I raise my brows. That’s… weirdly sweet.
I’m still a little bit out of it, but I’m much better. Thank you
His reply comes less than a minute later.
Can I come over?
I sit up.
Why?
I thought I could bring you some lunch, and maybe we could talk about last night
Wow, what a fun time! Let’s absolutely eat an awkward lunch together in my slightly nasty apartment and talk about the traumatic and mortifying experience that I went through yesterday. Let’s definitely do that! It’s not like I’m already doing everything in my power not to think about it.
That’s nice of you. I’m all right though
I’m already on my way
Hope you like Thai
Are! You! Fucking! Kidding! Me!
The audacity of this man.
I look around the apartment and see dirty laundry draped over chairs, dishes piled in the sink, and sprinkles of dust pretty much everywhere.
Great!
As I’m trying to tidy up, I realize I’m wearing pajamas. And not the cute, matching kind. I’m wearing a T-shirt with a faded Titanic print and a pair of ratty flannel pants, which I’m like ninety-nine percent sure have a hole in the crotch.
And the literal cherry on top? My hair is tied up in a bun that Annie sometimes calls the Pepper, lovingly named after my look-alike in American Horror Story.
It’s not a trendy slicked-back bun or a cute messy bun.
No. It’s a tight, embarrassingly small ball on the very top of my head.
Draw a smiley on an onion, and there you have me.
My hair is greasy, so I can’t take it out, and I don’t have time to shower. I grab a hoodie from one of the many piles of clothes, pull it over my head, and draw the hood up. It completely disguises my hair. You can barely even see a bump where my pathetic little bun is.
I need to buy a serum or something.
Jesus Christ.
There’s a knock on the door. I groan.
He gave me what, five minutes?
I open the door, and there he is. Crisp white shirt, black slacks, expensive coat slung over his arm. His hair is in its usual perfect swoop, and his face is freshly shaved. He’s holding a brown paper bag that gives off a warm, spicy smell that immediately makes my stomach speak up.
I want to complain about the unfairness of it all. He’s standing in my doorway, looking absolutely perfect, while I look like I haven’t left my room for two weeks.
But the fact is, he doesn’t look perfect.
The things he can control are immaculate, as always.
But the things he can’t control are giving him away.
The wrinkle between his brows is deeper than usual.
His skin is sallow, almost sunken, and his green eyes, usually so sharp and irritatingly vibrant, look dull.
The purple shadows beneath them are dark enough to pass for bruises.
“Hi,” he says, holding up the bag. “I brought lunch.”
“It looks like shit in here.”
“I don’t care.”
“I look like shit.”
His gaze moves over me, and something almost amused flickers across his face. “I don’t care.”
Rude.
He steps inside, and I can see his eyes sweep over the apartment.
It’s untidy, yes, but it’s not a terrible place to live.
Both Annie and I played The Sims religiously growing up, so it’s nicely furnished, and while it’s not a high-end apartment, it’s not one of the crappy ones either. It’s nice. Cozy.
Currently buried under laundry, but still.
“Are you cold?” he asks.
I give him an odd look. “No?”
“Then why—” He gestures toward my head and the hood covering it.
“It’s a long story,” I lie.
He will never see the Pepper.
Andrew sets the bag on our kitchen table and starts taking out containers. It smells heavenly.
“Do you have silverware?” he asks, sounding genuine. Not like, “Could you bring out your silverware?” but genuinely, “Do you own silverware?”
I open a drawer and grab us forks. As I set them on the table, I think, fuck him for just showing up here, and therefore say, “I’m allergic to peanuts, you know. So I hope you asked for it without.”
He shakes his head and slides a container toward me. “No, you’re not.”
I open my mouth to object, but he just pushes it even closer. “Eat.”
All right, damn.
I dig in, and he does the same. Every now and then, I glance at him, taking in the absurd fact that he’s sitting there in our kitchen. He looks too big at the tiny table, too polished even with the shadows under his eyes, as if someone accidentally dropped a Chanel bag into a Walmart clearance bin.
After a few minutes, he clears his throat. “So, about last night.”
I cringe. “Is this really necessary?”
“Last night cannot happen again.”
“I already got the speech from Dr. Shaw,” I say, stabbing a shrimp with my fork. “She did the whole medical reality thing. It was very sobering, lots of eye contact. Ten out of ten, would not recommend.”
“I’m glad she spoke to you.”
“Great. Then we can consider me spoken to.”
“No,” he says, not harshly, but with enough certainty that I look up. “We can’t.”
Andrew’s jaw works once before he continues. “When Dr. Shaw called me, for a few seconds I thought she was going to tell me you were dead. She said your name, and that it was urgent, and in the time it took her to explain that you were alive, I had already decided it was my fault.”
I go still.
He looks down at the table, and for once he doesn’t seem polished at all.
“I thought about how I almost came here when you didn’t answer, but I didn’t.
I told myself you were home, that Annie was there, and that you knew the risks and would call if you started feeling worse.
I didn’t want to push harder because I knew you were trying to create distance, and I didn’t want to make you feel cornered.
” He lifts his gaze back to mine. “Then Dr. Shaw told me you needed treatment immediately. She said that if Annie hadn’t called when she did, you might not have made it through the night. ”
I put down my fork, feeling something sickly settle in my stomach.
“I think I broke about a dozen traffic laws driving to the hospital. And then there you were, dying.” His face hardens. “I’ve never seen anything like it before, and I never want to again, which is why I’m here now.” He looks me straight in the eyes. “This can’t happen again.”
The guilt and shame feel like a heavy weight on my shoulders, pressing me down into the chair. “It won’t. I promise.”
“But how can I know that, Carly?” If I didn’t know better, I’d say he looks pleading. “How can I know that you’re not just saying that?” He pauses. “I understand that I’ve crossed a line, and if you feel unsafe with—”
“No,” I yell, and stand up so fast my chair scrapes against the floor. “Oh my god, Andrew, is that what you think?”
I drag a hand over my face, then remember the hood and stop before I accidentally reveal the Pepper.
“You think I’m scared of you?” I ask.
His expression doesn’t clear.
Fantastic.
Now I have to explain.
I take a few steps away from the table and turn my back to him, because looking at him while saying this is absolutely not happening.
I stare instead at the window and at my own faint reflection in the glass.
A hooded swamp creature standing in her kitchen, and a handsome prince getting out of his chair behind her.
“It’s not that,” I say. “It’s kind of the opposite.”
“The opposite?”
My pulse thumps loudly in my ears. “It stopped feeling like a treatment.”
Behind me, Andrew goes very still.
“What did it feel like?”
I close my eyes. “Don’t make me say it.”
“I think you may have to.”
“I just—” I make a helpless gesture as heat creeps up my neck. “I just liked it too much, okay?”
The silence stretches long enough that I start regretting every decision I’ve ever made, beginning with learning how to speak. Then the floor creaks softly behind me, and I realize he’s moved closer.
“In what way?”
His voice is low, and the sound of it sends a shiver down my spine.
“What do you mean?”
“Is it only physical?”
That would be the safe answer. I know that. I should say yes, obviously, because that would be embarrassing but survivable.
Congratulations, Andrew Bennett, you are extremely good at orgasms. I can leave you a five-star review on Yelp.
But for some reason, I just can’t bring myself to lie right now.
“No,” I whisper, but the word feels too loud in the quiet kitchen.
Andrew is still behind me. I wish I could crawl into his head and look around for a minute. Find out what those calls meant. Find out whether this is as bad for him as it is for me.
After a few seconds, he asks, “And Josh?”
The question catches me off guard.
He thinks I’m still dating Josh?
“It ended,” I say. “Or, well, it never really started. Either way, there’s nothing there.”
A beat of silence passes. Then Andrew exhales.
“Please turn around.”
I should not.
I definitely should not.
I turn around.
He’s closer than I expected, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to look at him. His gaze drops to my mouth, quick but unmistakable.
“Andrew,” I whisper.
His hand lifts toward my face, then stops halfway there.
He’s giving me the chance to step back—waiting for me to do the smart thing for both of us.
Unfortunately, I am dumb.
So I lean into his hand.
His palm settles against my cheek, warm and steady, and his thumb brushes once over my skin. The touch is so gentle it almost hurts, and when my breath catches, his eyes darken.
“This is a bad idea,” he says.
“I know,” I say, and grip the front of his shirt.
His mouth hovers over mine, close enough that I can feel his breath.
Then he kisses me.
And oh.
His mouth is warm and careful at first, almost too careful, like he is still trying to make sure I have room to change my mind.
But then my fingers tighten in his shirt, and his restraint breaks.
His breath catches against my mouth, his hand slides from my cheek to the side of my neck, and the kiss deepens.
I kiss him as if my life depends on it, because for one wild second, it almost feels that way. Like he’s oxygen, water, food, sleep. Like I’m dying and he’s the only thing that can pull me back from the edge.
One hand lands on my waist, pulling me closer, and for a few seconds, I forget the apartment.
The dishes in the sink. The laundry on the chair.
The stupid outfit I have on. I forget about work, friends, family, RHV, all of it.
There is only his hand at my waist, his mouth on mine, and the terrifying thought that I might never recover from this kiss.
Then I feel my hood slipping.
I let go of Andrew and slap a hand on top of my head, stopping it from falling down and inadvertently stopping the kiss.
He blinks, and I see it happen. Reality comes crashing down on him. It’s as if he forgot too. About who we are, about what this is, and about all the reasons this cannot happen.
“Carly.” His voice is rough. “We can’t.”
He lets go of my waist and takes a step back. The space between us feels immediate and cold.
“I’m your boss,” he says.
He looks like he wants to say more, but he doesn’t. Maybe because there’s nothing else to say. Maybe because anything else would be too honest, and we have already used up more honesty than either of us can survive today.
Andrew reaches for his coat. “I should go.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Probably.”
He pauses by the door with one hand on the handle. “Rest.”
Then he leaves.
I lock the door behind him and stand there, forehead almost touching the wood. My heart is still pounding, my lips feel swollen, and nothing feels the same as it did before he came.