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“Call downstairs,” I tell Olivier. “Tell whoever’s there you’re not accepting any more visitors. Let them know it’s a security issue. They’ll lock down the floor.”
He just blinks at me.
“Make the call,” I say.
He lets Elodie go, and I take his place, but instead of hugging her, I walk her into the living room and sit with her on the couch. She finds my hand and holds it, her sobs now quieting to silent tears and the occasional sniff. She leans her head on my shoulder.
“I’m sorry,” I tell her.
“It’s not your fault.”
My hickey, my fault, I figure, but the truth is, I don’t know what actually happened. I can only assume unless she wants to talk about, which I won’t make her do.
Olivier has no issues with talking, though.
He sits down in front of us on the coffee table and asks the question. “Tell me exactly what happened.”
36
OLIVIER
Ican’t tell if I’m livid or terrified as Elodie tells the story of her father’s latest beating. He was drunk. He thought her disappearance from the party was unacceptable, and the hickey apparently pushed him to violence. He’d followed her upstairs after Drew and I left, called her horrible names, and then proceeded to punch her in the fucking face.
Twice.
If literally any other circumstance applied, I would be on the phone with my father so fast, demanding some sort of swift, corporate castration. She’s my fiancée for fuck’s sake. My only friend.
But these are not the good old days. Not by a lot. I sink my face into my hands, feeling utterly useless and so guilty, I can’t stand it. Drew’s warm, strong hand settles on my shoulder. “It’s not your fault, baby.”
I’m about three of Drew’s babies away from declaring my undying love for him, so he needs to watch it if he doesn’t want to wind up stuck with a clingy, destitute hobo with no job skills and a bad attitude. He gives my face a light pat when I glare at him and then points a finger at me to say, “It’s not. She already said this wasn’t the first time.”
“It’s gonna be the last time, though. You’re not going back there,” I say to her.
“How’m I gonna manage that? They won’t let me move in here before we’re married.”
“Then let’s get married,” I say.
Drew sits forward. “Hold on, Romeo—let’s slow the fuck down, okay?”
I gesture toward Elodie. “I can’t let her go back there!”
“I get it,” he says. “I hear you. I know. But if you go pissing off your parents right now, they could take the whole marriage offer off the table, or she could get hurt worse, so we’re not doing that. No one’s getting married until they have to.”
I narrow my eyes at him. I can’t tell what Drew’s angle is, but I don’t like it. “But we are getting married. You understand that right?”
“Yes,” he says through a tense jaw.
I nod once. “Good.”
Drew glares before turning to Elodie. “Can I get you some water? Something stronger?” he asks like this is his apartment, too.
“Stronger. Yeah.”
He gets up, and I let him play host while I sit down next to Elodie and speak softly to her. “What do you need?”
“I don’t know,” she says. “I just didn’t have anywhere else to go, and I needed someone to like—see—for once.”
Elodie’s mom died when Elodie was eleven. I’ve only met the current Mrs. Lafayette, wife number three. She’s around Drew’s age, and Mr. Lafayette is on the older side with a thing for younger women and, apparently, a real mean streak.
