Will do. Love your friend by the way. I would have bet against you yesterday if I knew you’d be so preoccupied with something else.
Asshole.
:)
Truth be told, I might even consider that asshole my friend. And he has a way of making problems go away so we won’t have to deal with this in the future. But I have another matter to discuss with him—something tells me Bea won’t like me going back there, so I need to say my goodbyes. And that’s better done face to face.
33
Bea
Steaming in my own anger,I slam my door a little too hard and immediately wince because the building is held together with tape and civic neglect. A loud knock on the wall from my neighbor makes me slow down my raging horses as I march around my shoebox apartment, and I freeze when my gaze falls on the bed where we created a total mess. The sheet is half off, the towel is on the floor, and my underwear is MIA. The room still smells like him—cedar and soap and something male and stupidly addictive—and that only makes the anger worse. Because underneath the anger is a whole set of new troubles I’m not ready to face.
“Fine? Fine?” I mimic, tossing my pillow back on the bed. “We’re fine! We’re totally, unbelievably fine.”
I’m not fine.
I strip the bed like it insulted me personally, ball the sheets, and cram them into the tiny washer in the closet. As the machine groans to life and starts its squeaky spin, flashes of last nightattack me with zero warning: his mouth on mine, his hand in my hair, the way he said ‘mine’ like a prayer and a threat.
The moment he froze under me, swore, and begged me to slow down because his ego wouldn’t survive it—then me laughing, him swearing again, me rocking on top of him, and his fingers between my legs.
A shiver runs through me so hard I grab the washer door with a loud groan of frustration.
I hate him. I absolutely hate him. I also want him to text me. And call me. And come back. And never leave.
I lean my forehead against the cabinet and take a breath that doesn’t bring relief.I’m fine.I’m also lying to myself like it’s an Olympic sport.
My phone lights up on the counter with a call from Maeve. Because of course she has psychic timing.
I stare at her name for two rings, then pick up. “Hey.”
“Why do you sound like you swallowed a stapler?”she asks without hello, because she’s disgusting and endearing like that.
“Just tired.” I crane a look at the bedsheets, which are currently doing a sexy peek-a-boo out of the washer gasket like they’re trying to escape. “And my washing machine is letting out a painful screech like Prometheus before the eagle pulls his liver out.”
“O-okay, that’s oddly specific. Are you coming by the studio later? We’re fitting the samples for the charity thing, and I need your eyes.”
“Can’t. Work,” I say. “Boss. You know.”
There’s a pause followed by a low hum.“You okay?”
I pick at the edge of the counter until a sliver of laminate peels up like a hangnail. “Yep.”
“You want me to come over?”
“No,” I blurt, too fast. If she sees the crime scene that is my sheets, she’ll put me in a chokehold until I confess to riding my injured boss. “I’m fine. I’ll swing by after work.”
I won’t.
“Liar.”Her sigh is a whole paragraph.“Text me if your machine eats your apartment.”
“It might,” I say, ending the call.
I reach for my bag, already mentally calculating which train will smell the least like hot pennies and despair, when my phone pings again.
Subject:WFH Option Today
Hi Beatrice,
