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I put down the whiskey. Clearly, I’ve had enough. “I have Elodie’s number if you want it.”
“Seriously? You’d be in?”
“Let’s just say I saw something tonight that made me want to help her out. But that’s your story to get out of her.”
“Do you think I can?”
Honestly, I’m not sure whether the high echelon of Upper East Side society is penetrable at all. After how Olivier treated me tonight, I felt like an intruder in his cordoned-off world. Why would Elodie act any differently?
I give Jericho a shrug, doubting whether the couple in name only knows what’s really good for them, or they’re just so used to being kept like pets that they’re too whipped to strike out on their own.
I shouldn’t care, but I do. I shouldn’t be pissed off, but I am. I shouldn’t be hurt, but I’m drinking myself numb. “Do you mind if I crash on your couch?”
She gives me quite a look then. “I’ll call you a car.”
Right. I just told her I cheated on her, and then I dumped her. I appreciate the kindness and understanding she’s extended so far, but it was a dumb question, and I feel appropriately chastised, which she goes on to do by saying, “I still want us to be friends, Drew. I love you a ton. But no sleepovers.”
“You’re right. I’m sorry. I totally get it.”
I get to my apartment about fifteen minutes later. No one’s home, but I turn on the living room TV, make the sofa bed, and fall into a restless sleep to the sound of a space documentary I chose for exactly that purpose. I wake up to a buzzing intercom and a vibrating phone.
39
OLIVIER
Where the fuck is he?
I’m freezing to death, I just saw a rat the size of my forearm, and Drew does not appear to be home. I want to scream.
I jam my finger into his intercom button several times in rapid succession while my breath puffs out in clouds of steam and the tip of my nose turns to ice.
Finally, finally, the door to his building unlocks, and I rush through it, blowing into my bare hands as I climb the stairs hoping to find him and not a roommate.
And there he is, in the clothes I last saw him in, smelling faintly of liquor, with a messy head of hair and bleary blue eyes. For a second, I’m so relieved, I nearly throw my arms around him, but I remember how pissed off he was last night and why. I’m probably the last person he wants to see, but I’ve been up all night, running on adrenaline and energy drinks.
“That was quick,” he mumbles, stepping out of the way so I can come in. “I thought I told you to call.”
“I mean, I did. Several times.”
“Oh.”
I’m still cold, so I don’t take off my coat right away. Standing in his living room with my hands in my pockets, I stare at him from a six-foot distance. He runs a hand through his hair and glances around a moment before he finally takes a deep breath and meets my eyes.
This is where I’m supposed to apologize. Possibly even grovel. But if he doesn’t tell me how to go about it, I’m not sure what to do.
Groveling for my parents usually comes with a task that requires completion—say marrying someone to save face and ensure a prosperous business relationship. Maybe it’s not obvious, but apologies aren’t really my forte. I do know how they’re supposed to start, though. “I’m really sorry for what I said last night.”
“We covered this.”
“I wanted to say it again.”
“So what?” he asks, stumping me. “What does it change?”
“I know what I don’t want it to change,” I say.
“Then it might be too little, too late.”
My hope plummets. “Please tell me that’s not your final answer.”
