Page 38 of Based on You

"You absolutely are." He insisted on it. "It's like each new layer would make someone cry. Talk to me."

I hesitated, weighing the risk. Then I offered a small smile. "Okay. My family and I aren't on the best of terms right now."

He leaned against the wall, crossing his arms. "There it is. That's definitely something."

I smiled, sad, and nodded.

"They had high expectations I didn't meet," I summarized. "I'm sure you can't relate to that feeling at all."

He looked at me with something quiet and kind in his face. "I really can't," he agreed, dry. "I'm far too successful."

I laughed despite myself.

"Enough about me."

He lifted a skeptical eyebrow. "That was way too short."

"I really don't have anything else to tell you. You already know the rest of it."

His jaw tightened. Just a small flinch, lasting a second, the hard muscle ticking under the skin. I saw it, and I knew what it meant. Elena. The loss was woven through everything, through the company, through his hollow house, through every room he walked into, and I wasn't going to push on that fresh bruise. Not here, not standing in the middle of my ruined apartment surrounded by cardboard boxes, not when his jaw had just given away that much pain.

"Sure," I agreed quietly. "Let's move on. We're both pretty boring people anyway."

He laughed under his breath, and we finished packing.

By the time we taped up the last box, it was too late to head back to the office. We stood in the center of the emptied apartment, the boxes stacked near the front door, and he looked at me, expectant.

"So, where are you moving to?"

I shook my head, rubbing my tired eyes. "I have no idea. I'll just get a hotel for now."

He looked at me with a particular expression, his head dropping in exasperation. "You have to be kidding me. You'd rather spend an absurd amount of money on a sterile hotel room than just come home with me?"

I froze.

Come home with me. He said it plainly, no heavy romantic weight attached. And I stood there in my gutted apartment, clutching a heavy box of paperbacks, and tried very hard to be a logical, reasonable person about the offer.

"Simon, I can't just move in with you," I argued, weak. "I can't just⁠—"

"Stop talking."

He hoisted one of the heaviest boxes without effort, tucked it under his arm, and walked straight out the door.

I stood frozen in the empty apartment and watched him leave. I'd really thought it would be one night. Two at the most. A brief, annoying inconvenience, a problem that would resolve itself by the weekend when Sloane got back and I could crash with her while I sorted out a new lease.

But Simon was already hauling my possessions to his car, and come home hadn't sounded temporary. Somewhere in the blurry space between the lobby last night and this moment, I'd stopped being a stranded houseguest and started being something else, something I didn't yet have a clean word for.

I picked up the last box and followed him out.

Marta was bustling in the kitchen when we got back to the house. She heard the front door open, appeared in the hallway wiping her hands on a dishcloth, and looked at the stacked boxes Simon was carrying, then at me.

"Welcome back," she said, level, her sharp eyes darting once between us before she turned back toward the kitchen.

"Thank you, Marta."

Simon set the boxes down in the center of the living room and turned to me. "You can leave them down here for now. I'll have someone sort them out tomorrow."

I shook my head. "I'd rather take them upstairs now."