“We really are.” His arm tightens around me. “Syd?”
“Hmm?”
“Are you sure you need the apartment?” He pushes the hair off my face, his fingers trailing along my temple. “Because we’ve waited so long. I want you in this room. I want you with me. The guest room is twenty feet away, and that’s already too far.”
I lift my head and look at him. His eyes are half-closed, and his warm hand rests on my face as he gazes at me like I’m the only thing in the world that matters. I think about getting a lease and having an address with my name on it, but none of it feels as urgent as it did twenty-four hours ago.
“I’ll think about it,” I say. “I like being here too.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, Arch. Of course I like being here.”
His thumb traces my cheekbone, and he pulls me closer. I rest my head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat, and I think, maybe I don’t need a safety net. Maybe the net is him. Maybe it’s always been him. Maybe it’s okay to fall.
I’ll think about it tomorrow. Tonight, I’m exactly where I want to be.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The Meet Up
Sydney
I text Bree on a Tuesday morning, which is either the bravest or the dumbest thing I’ve done since moving to New York—and the bar for both is pretty high.
Me:Can I buy you lunch this week? Just us. I think we should talk.
She doesn’t respond for three hours. I check my phone fourteen times during hip-hop class, which Dolores notices and comments on, while Gerald asks if I’m expecting a call from the president. I tell him no, and he says, “Good, because the president doesn’t dance,” before returning to his routine.
My phone buzzes during cool-down.
Bree:Thursday works. We can meet for coffee. Ten-thirty. There’s a café on Smith Street called Linden. I’ll be there.
It’s not overly friendly. There’s no emoji. No exclamation point. No “Sounds great!” Just the facts, delivered like a woman who has agreed to a meeting she doesn’t want but knows she needs.
I spend Wednesday night lying in Archer’s bed with my head on his chest, running my fingers along his forearm, tracing the paper airplane tattoo while he watches hockey highlights on his phone.
We’ve been sleeping in his room for almost a week now, and we haven’t had sex yet. We’ve done other things—things that make my face hot in grocery stores when I think about them—but we’re taking it slow on the rest, which sounds mature and responsible, but is actually killing both of us. I can feel how much he wants to every time his hands stop at my hips or he pulls back from a kiss, breathing hard with his forehead against mine. But we’re still so new at this, still figuring out what we are, and neither of us wants to rush the one thing we can’t undo.
“I’m having coffee with Bree tomorrow,” I say.
His phone lowers. “You’re what?”
“I texted her. I asked if we could talk. She said yes.”
He’s quiet for a second, his hand resting on my hip. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”
“No. But I think I need to do it.”
“What are you going to say?”
“I’m honestly not sure yet. I just—I owe her a conversation. Woman to woman. Without you in the middle of it.”
He puts his phone on the nightstand and pulls me closer, his chin resting on top of my head. “She might not be nice about it, Syd.”
“She has every right not to be.”
“I know. I just don’t want you to get hurt.”
