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“Don’t doubt yourself,” he says. “You’re smarter than you think.”
I lean my head on his shoulder. “And you’re more beautiful than you could possibly understand.”
“On that note, I’m gonna need you out of these clothes. Right now.”
I smile. The conversation about being versatile can wait until later.
48
DREW
It’s late, and we’ve been celebrating. It wasn’t my idea, but Olivier insisted, and he’s extremely hard to say no to. Actually, that’s not true. He’s easy to say no to—shout it even, but he doesn’t listen, and so he gets his way pretty much all the time, as evidenced by the fact that I’m still living in New York, more than a month after I thought my time here was up, and I’m in a serious, monogamous relationship with a man. Olivier Arnaud gets what he wants.
And yet again, he’s succeeded—I’m officially the new face and body for Primal—a cruelty-free hair, skin, and fragrance line for men. Keats Kelly capitalized on his connection with his advertising industry buddy, and I got the gig. A huge one. The three-year contract I signed this morning made me instantly financially solvent again.
I paid that plumber and the bathroom loan off so fucking fast, you’d think I was trying to post bond. It’s a huge weight lifted, and sure, yeah, worthy of celebration.
Olivier and I don’t have a lot of people we associate with these days, though. Silas is MIA, Chris is still pissed at me for cheating on Jericho—fair—and our world is small. There’s Mallory, the ghostwriter, who’s become like a big sister to Elodie. There’s Jeremy, Olivier’s smoking buddy, and often Matthew, who managed to snag my job when I quit and still thinks of Elodie as his muse.
Still, I feel like I just got off a rollercoaster. Slightly nauseated, and vaguely traumatized. I have yet to process the last few years or the feelings of rejection and abject failure that came with them. I’m not happy with myself for hurting Jericho—although she’s forgiven me like all I did was forget to put the toilet seat down and not completely violate her trust in me. I can’t forgive myself for it, though, and I often ruminate on how karma might make me pay for that betrayal.
Losing Olivier is not only my greatest fear—it’s damn near a phobia.
None of this takes away from how obsessively in love with him I am, but it does mute any joy I might find inside what we have.
I started having panic attacks about two weeks ago, while we were waiting to hear back from Primal. The paralyzing anxiety comes in the middle of the night when Olivier is passed out from whatever I just put him through to cope with my ever-present sense of inadequacy.
I weather the panic in the privacy of the bathroom when the attacks come—the sense of impending doom, the tight chest, the tingling hands, rapid heartbeat, shortness of breath—the need to dial 9-1- on my phone and let my thumb hover over the 1 just in case this is the real deal.
But they pass. And I go back to bed and either sleep or don’t.
With the outlook for the next three years looking a lot brighter, I hope I’ll finally start getting better. Every single circumstance of my life has changed in a good way. Eventually, my brain will catch up, and I can enjoy what I have.
We’re at the stage of the night where Matt and Elodie have disappeared, Mallory and Jeremy are arguing about Shakespeare, and Olivier and I are mentally undressing each other while we shuttle dishes and leftovers from the dining table to the kitchen.
“We should go up to the roof tonight,” he says to me on one of our passes. “It’s warm out.”
I’ve never been to the roof. I nod with interest, picturing things.
He’s so sexy tonight with his hair in his headband and a black t-shirt. His jeans are faded, soft, and worn. He’s casual. Easy. And I love seeing his whole face—his big eyes and superior nose. His pale, aristocratic forehead.
I swear half of what I do when I’m fucking him is pull his hair back so I can see him better. As someone who’s spent a lot of time staring at my own reflection, there’s nothing in the world I enjoy looking at more these days than him, which says a lot about how obsessed I am.
A crash comes from Elodie’s room, and we all turn in that direction, but when no one emerges bleeding, Mallory swallows the dregs of her wine and says, “I guess it’s probably time to head out.”
Olivier shares a look with Jeremy who stands and walks over to me. “Congratulations again. Well deserved.”
I try not to wince. I don’t like thinking about what I deserve. “Thank you.”
He turns and calls to Olivier. “Ollie—walk me home.”
Olivier shakes his head, giving me a look. “I’ll be right back.”
I smile and walk everyone to the door, opening it for them like a compulsion. My phone buzzes in my back pocket with a text. A high-pitched shriek from Elodie’s room makes me want to poke holes in my eardrums. Those two are ridiculous, but at least they’re having fun. I think.
I start the dishwasher, put several containers of leftovers in the fridge, and top off my wine before I head up to the bedroom—mainly to give Elodie and Matthew more privacy—and protect my delicate sensibilities.
My phone vibrates again, this time with a call.
