Chapter 41. Brynn
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Debra waves when she sees me lumbering down the hall. She gathers her floral caftan to the side and stoops to pick up a large box outside her apartment door. “Did you get away this weekend?” she asks, her voice bright.
“I-I stayed with a friend.” I shove my key in the door without looking at her. My limbs hang heavy like I’ve been away for a week. Why does this hallway look smaller than it did yesterday?
“That’s some friend.” She eyeballs my crumpled blue dress I’ve worn all weekend and the floppy Woodstock hat on my head.
I flash her a weak smile and duck through my door. A sadness fills my chest—that feeling of disappointment I always get the day after Christmas. I collapse onto my mattress. Hard as a rock. Wonderful. The mildew smell has returned. Thanks, rain.
I roll on my side, envisioning Micah next to me. I gather my hair and pull it over my nose and mouth, breathing him in, eyes closed.
Uh-oh.
I’ve got to shake him off. Be by myself, refocus, not let myself be swept away by those soft suede eyes that follow me everywhere.
It got weird after I found those pill bottles.
He sure pulled a mood when I wanted to leave.
His tone came off almost nasty. I guess he gets mean when things don’t go his way.
Good to know. Another reason I should end this before it goes further.
He’s charming, sure, and I won’t pretend it wasn’t fun, but who am I kidding?
It won’t last or end well. For me, not him.
Bet the agency executives compete over who can sleep with a summer intern first.
My phone vibrates on the floor. UNKNOWN CALLER.
I forgot Micah sent himself a text from my phone.
“Can we talk?” He sounds rushed. “I know I acted badly back there.”
“Um . . . yeah.” I exhale, all breathy, unaware I’d held it.
“You hungry yet?”
I swivel my head toward the sink filled with dishes. “About to boil some pasta, you?”
“I picked up some Chinese. Too much to eat by myself.”
“Mmm, what kind?”
“Buzz me in and I’ll show you.”
“Micah . . .” I sigh.
“Say my name again and I’ll kiss you in the morning meeting.”
“I’ll kick your ass.”
“Yeah, you could. I’ll take that chance.”
The staccato drips from the kitchen sink distract my ability to form a solid excuse. My mouth waters at the prospect of Chinese food awaiting below my window. My stomach and I hit the buzzer.
I spot him at the top of the stairs with a large to-go bag and a huge smile.
I leave my door ajar and scurry to the communal bathroom to brush my teeth, hair, and whatever else needs attention.
When I return, a tablecloth covers the floor along with a couple of those religious candles they sell at the bodegas. “What’s all this?”
“Excuse the mood lighting. The selection at the corner store was kind of slim.”
I flop down cross-legged on the floor facing him. My stomach leaps at the sight of a small carton of vegetable spring rolls. I snatch one and bite off the end.
Micah grins at me.
I grin back as I chew, savoring the sweet and spicy flavor, the aromas of garlic and ginger, and the breath-stealing delivery guy before me.
His intense, unguarded eyes watch me.
My brain starts to poke holes in this carefully crafted sweet moment. The pieces of cabbage in my mouth lose flavor. They travel down the wrong pipe. I cough, choking.
His eyes widen. “You alright?”
I take a sip of water. “Um . . . this weekend together . . . I know you said to not overthink it. But I’ve never done anything like this . . . and this is my first real job. I can’t afford to lose it. I don’t know how things will go—”
“I don’t know either.” His body sags. “Wish we’d met at a college bar like most people our age.”
“What if someone from work saw us walking around the Village or in the park holding hands?”
He blinks a few times, his lips pressed into a line.
I bend my knees to my chest. “I don’t want to be a joke tomorrow.”
His eyes flinch. “People could easily say I took advantage of you, the high school intern.”
“Doesn’t matter. You’re not going anywhere; your name is on the door.”
His face clouds over.
“I didn’t mean—”
“Yeah, you did.” He scowls.
“I didn’t mean to ruin our last night together.”
Micah’s face drains of color.
Shit. I’m better at eating than speaking.
Always have been. I want to thank him for one of the best weekends of my life.
His attentive affection, and most of all his kindness, lifted me out of my funk.
Beyond the earthshaking sex, I had fun hanging out with Micah.
Walking around the city with our fingers interlaced.
I’m sure to onlookers we appeared to be a real couple and not some shady office hookup.
I’m torn. I think I really like him. Our unforeseen weekend together put a pin in the crushing sadness and stress I’ve been carrying since losing everyone I love and finding myself alone in this adult world.
I watch his face through the awkward silence. I don’t know how to retrieve my words or fix my habit of dishing out brutal honesty. If I could chase off the raincloud hanging over us, I would. Truth? I wanted to feel him on top of me one last time.
But come on, he must have known it wouldn’t last. These things never do. I’m not rich like him, living rent-free in a historically registered house in New York City. I need my job.
My palm starts to itch. I shift around; suddenly, the floor feels unbearably hard.
I wish he’d just go and leave the food.