28. Riley
Cole comes downstairs laterthan I do the next morning, which is a little unusual. Typically, he’s the first one up, making breakfast in the kitchen. Archie follows closely behind him, and all of us sit down to breakfast at the counter together.
As we eat, Cole says nothing about last night, but I can’t help noticing the awkwardness between us. Archie chats happily about his favorite paintings from the auction, blissfully unaware of the tension.
Cole gives one-word responses, and spends most of the time sitting in silence. I want to ask him what’s going on, and the reason for this strange distance, but I don’t want to seem clingy.
Instead, I pretend that I haven’t noticed the awkwardness, either. I talk to Archie, trying to keep my voice easy-breezy. It’s harder to put on the casual tone than usual.
After breakfast, Cole picks up to head to the office. Archie runs off to play with his toys in the living room as Cole pours himself a thermos of coffee. I sit at the counter, confused by his demeanor, watching him for any clues. As always, Cole is unreadable.
“I’ve got a big deal coming up,” he says into the silence, not looking up at me.
“Okay,” I say, unsure why he’s telling me this.
“I’m going to be staying late at work. I just wanted you to know.”
I bite my lip. “Sounds good. Should I wait up?”
“No,” he says flatly, capping the thermos.
“Okay.” I do my best to hide my disappointment, but it’s harder than ever. After spending so many nights together, I’m feeling brushed off by yesterday and this morning.
I leave the counter; I don’t feel up to looking Cole in the eye. Instead, I focus on Archie.
“Hey, kiddo,” I say, walking into the living room. “No time to play this morning. We’ve got to get you to school.”
* * *
Cole wasn’t kiddingwhen he said he was busy. He doesn’t just stay late for one night; he stays late almost every night of the following week, working such long hours that I barely get the chance to see him at all.
I hate that I miss him. It isn’t something that would happen if I was really able to maintain the kind of casual-sex relationship we both agreed to. I’d be disappointed at the lack of sex, probably, but I wouldn’t be yearning for his company like this.
I have to admit, though, this house feels so bleak without him around. It’s depressing.
I throw myself into spending time with Archie, and we manage to have fun on our own. Archie’s paintings are getting better, especially after the art auction. He tries splatter painting for the first time, inspired by the abstract art, and I cover all of the furniture in the front room with newspaper for protection.
As much fun as I’m having with Archie, though, I can’t fully shake the empty feeling in my chest.
Nothing is guaranteed between me and Cole, I keep reminding myself. We said there would be no feelings and no strings. When he works late and doesn’t come into my room at night, it’s part of our agreement.
Try as I might, I can’t stop wishing that I could ask Cole for more—or at least, ask him what’s going on. I don’t like this distance, but I don’t know how to change it. I don’t have the right to change it, per our agreement.
On Thursday night, Cole is working late again, as usual. At eight, I take Archie upstairs to bed, help him brush his teeth, and read him a bedtime story.
When I’m finished, I stand up to turn out the light. His blankets pulled up to his chin, Archie says quietly, “Riley?”
“Yeah?”
“When I go to sleep, and you go back downstairs… what do you do?”
I hesitate for just a moment before replying, “I do whatever I feel like doing, silly.”
“Like what?”
The past few lonely nights, I haven’t been doing much of anything. I sigh, then say, “Well, I’m an artist, right? I like to draw and paint.” It feels like a reminder to myself more than an answer for Archie.
That seems to satisfy him, though. He mumbles something, his words made unintelligible by the rush of sleep that overtakes him.
“Goodnight, Archie,” I whisper. Smiling, I turn off the light and pull the door closed.
Archie’s question gives me pause, and I stand in the hallway outside of his room, chewing on my lower lip.
Cole isn’t going to be home tonight. He texted me earlier, a somewhat cold reminder that he would be working late. So now, I have the evening to myself. I need to be here in case Archie wakes up and needs something, but other than that…
I’d rather not spend another night on the couch, hoping against hope that Cole will appear at the door and carry me up to my room.
I decide to draw. After clearing away the paint-splattered newspapers from the front room, I settle myself in at the corner desk with a pad of sketch paper and a few charcoal pencils.
I’m not sure about a subject, so I just begin to doodle. Hopefully, inspiration will strike before long. I begin sketching the outlines of eyes, filling them in steadily. I shade around the edges of the irises, charcoal dust coating my fingers.
Unfortunately, this just serves to remind me of the depth of Cole’s gaze, dancing behind each sketch. Frustrated, I set the charcoal down and lean back in the chair, staring at the ceiling.
I consider painting, but I haven’t painted anything myself since the art auction. I can’t stop thinking about the piece that I fell in love with, the one with the blurring blue lines that swirled into the stormy color of Cole’s eyes.
What the hell is wrong with me?
This should be so simple. Why is it anything but that?
I force myself to stand up from the drawing table. The house, as always, is spotless, but I decide to clean anyway, just to give myself something to do.
When I lived alone in my apartment, I cleaned pretty often. There was almost always clutter; I left messes wherever I went, and I didn’t exactly have a housekeeper. I quickly developed a habit of cleaning anytime I had too much time on my hands; it’s a perfect way to create a distraction.
I go to the kitchen to fetch a duster and disinfectant from a low cabinet. Then I make my way through all of the cabinets, cleaning the undersides of shelves and places that the housekeeper might skip from time to time.
I wander into the hallway, searching for another target. There’s a coat closet near the front door, beneath the stairs. I pull it open and lean inside, trying to swipe the duster through the back corners.
The second I step into the closet, I hear the door creak behind me. A bolt of alarm shoots through me, and I whirl around, but it’s too late.
The door slams shut on its own. Forcing down the panic, I grab at the handle—and, just as I feared, it doesn’t turn.
I’m locked in.
I take a deep, shaky breath. The closet is dark and small, and I’ve never been a fan of tight spaces.
The panic wells inside me, and despite my attempts to calm myself down, I start to hyperventilate. The breaths are desperate, like my body is convinced that I’m not getting enough air.
It’s impossible to tell how much time I spend jiggling the door, slamming a fist on it—maybe Archie will hear the sounds and wake up, come downstairs, and let me out. It’s unlikely, though. The house is huge, the walls are mostly soundproof, and he’s too far away.
I can feel myself spiraling, holding on by a thread.
I press myself into the jackets hanging in the back, which smell like Cole, and let out a desperate sob.
Minutes pass. I try to count the time, to distract myself, but I keep trailing off, unable to focus on the count. My eyes adjust to the darkness, which only makes things worse; from the feeble sliver of light that filters under the door, I can see the walls to either side of me, closing in.
After what feels like hours, I hear the sound of the door closing and keys jingling. Realization shoots through my panicked mind—that must be Cole. He’s home from work.
I pound on the door, shouting. “Cole! I’m stuck in this closet! Let me—”
I don’t even need to finish my cry for help. Cole yanks the door open at once, and I tumble out, sprawling onto the hardwood floor.
I gulp down lungfuls of air, desperately trying to calm my frantic breathing. Cole and I look at each other, and he tilts his head, confused.
“How on earth did you get stuck in the closet?” There’s a note of humor in his voice, like he’s about to turn this into a joke.
After the time I’ve had—an hour? Two hours? I’m not ready to joke about it. My jaw tightens, and tears sting at my eyes.
Goddammit… am I about to cry in front of him? Seriously?
Cole notices the change in my expression. He frowns. “What’s wrong?”
I shake my head quickly, scowling. I’m so freaked out that I can’t stop myself from blurting out, “What’s wrong with me? What’s wrong with you! You have a closet with a broken lock! Why haven’t you gotten that fixed?”
My heart is still fluttering in my chest like it’s trapped there, pounding at my ribs the same way I pounded at the locked door.
“That’s dangerous,” I continue, babbling now. “What if Archie got stuck in there? What if—”
I break off, abruptly out of breath, as if there’s no air left in my lungs.
At this point, Cole seems to realize how panicked I am. “Riley, what’s going on?”
I shake my head, unable to answer. Instead, I lurch for the door. I need air.
I burst outside and gasp a few huge, heaving lungfuls of the fresh air. It’s late, and somewhat chilly; the sky above is dark, and the street is almost soundless.
I sit down on the steps, hunched over, continuing to take deep breaths. I hear the door close behind me, and for a moment, I think that Cole shut it from inside. But then I hear the scuffle of his shoes as he sits down beside me.
“What’s going on?” he repeats, his voice softer than I’ve ever heard it. His hand rubs circles on my back, and it’s so soothing—not just the gentle motion, but also the simple fact that he’s touching me.
Still, I hesitate. I’m not sure I want to get into this.
When I look up at him, though, he meets my gaze squarely. I can’t avoid this forever. I take a deep breath, trying to calm myself down enough to tell him.
“When I was a little kid,” I say, my voice wavering as I force the words out, “I… I grew up in foster care. My mom, she… well, she wasn’t exactly the best parent, between the drugs and everything else.”
Cole’s hand goes still on my back, but it’s there, a comforting presence between my shoulder blades.
I wipe my eyes, then continue, “She was in prison for most of my teen years, so we were never really reunited. Foster care was… well, it was foster care. There were a lot of ups and downs. At one point, I lived with a girl who used to bully me.”
Talking about the memories seems to be helping—reminding myself of why I felt this panic, and why I don’t need to feel it anymore.
“One time, she locked me in a trunk in the attic of the place we were housed. I was small, but even so, there wasn’t a lot of room. I was trapped in there for hours by the time someone heard me shouting. My voice had gone hoarse.”
I glance at Cole, half expecting him to react the way most people do to that story—a vehement exclamation, that’s so awful, or something similar. He doesn’t. He sits in silence, listening, and tilts his head as if inviting me to go on.
I’m grateful for the quiet. It gives me enough space to keep speaking.
“Noah was the one who got me out,” I say. “Your neighbor. He always stood up for me when I was getting picked on, and we started to get close. He’s like a brother to me.”
I sniff, my gaze darting to Cole—to the elegant watch on his wrist that must have cost a fortune, the perfectly tailored suit that I know is one of dozens, the haircut that cost more than I make in a day. Embarrassment rises in me, flushing my cheeks.
What must he think of me? That I’m low class, probably. I just told him that my mom was a drug addict.
In an attempt to ameliorate the shame, I try for a weak, shaky smile. “You probably think I’m so trashy.”
He frowns, his brow furrowing. “Of course I don’t.”
“You don’t?” I blink at him, surprised.
He clasps his hands together, staring out into the night for a long moment. At last, he says, “Have I ever told you anything about my family?”
I shake my head, curious.
“Any family can have problems,” he says with a dry, mirthless chuckle. “Any family can have an ugly side. My father drank, and he was a toxic drunk. He never saw anyone about it, or sought treatment. Always insisted he wasn’t an alcoholic, but… well, if you have to insist, then something’s probably wrong.”
Cole sighs. His expression is still relaxed, but I can see the emotion in his eyes.
“My mother died when my sister and I were young—I was thirteen. From then on, we had to stick together, look out for each other. Just like you and Noah,” he says. “My dad was no better than your mom. He just got away with it in a way your mom didn’t. No one ever took his kids away.”
His words echo in my head. My dad was no better than your mom. I’m stunned by the admission, by the honesty.
I’ve always figured that wealthy people probably had skeletons in their expansive closets, dirty secrets that were easier for them to hide. But I never expected anyone like Cole to admit to it so readily.
I notice, as I turn the thoughts over in my head, that my heart rate has calmed down. I also don’t feel that shame anymore. Cole listened to me. Not only did he not judge me, but he also seemed to relate, which I never would’ve thought possible.
Cole’s hand moves to my chin, tilting my head up so that he can look into my eyes. He smiles, a genuine smile, the uncommon kind.
“You don’t have to feel ashamed of anything,” he says gently. “You know that, right? I’m never going to look down on you, angel.”
I wipe the gathering tears from my eyes and nod. I’m taken aback, but grateful. Suddenly, I don’t feel as alone as I felt earlier, pacing this empty house.
He leans close, and I do the same, as if we’re drawn together by a magnetic pull. When he kisses me, it’s soft and tender, unlike the typical ravenous kisses.
There’s still heat, though, as his kiss deepens. I lose myself in him—his smell, the feeling of his hand on my cheek, the softness of his lips.