Page 62

“But . . .”

“I’ll, uh, let you two talk,” Jimmy says, stepping away as though he’s in a blast zone. “Gotta get some stuff from the truck.”

I give a nod. “Get Hayley to give me a call.” She’s their cost consultant.

“On it.”

The door isn’t closed before Clara starts again. “We can’t stay here, Troy.” She throws out her arm, her panic ratcheting. “You heard him say we’re not allowed in there. I’m not allowed in there.”

“The place is still big enough. We’ll make do.”

“Do you have another bedroom through there, or are you expecting me to sleep in the bathtub?”

“How do you know I have a bathtub?”

“I’m not sleeping in a bathtub.” She folds her arms across her chest, and I try not to look. But in that dress, it’s kind of hard not to. Kind of hard not to get hard. I push that realization away.

“I’m not moving out,” I repeat, rubbing my hand up the back of my head.

“You can’t be serious.”

“And you can’t be telling me what I am. Not five minutes ago, you said you didn’t care. Besides, half of this apartment is still better than that shithole you were living in.”

“But I had my own room. Privacy. A place to retreat.”

“I’ll barely be here.”

“But you will be here. What then?”

“I’m sure you’ll cope,” I say, digging in.

“What about you—can you stand to be around me? Because only a few days ago, I could’ve sworn you’d happily wrap your hands around my neck.”

“You’re being dramatic.”

“And you’re being blind! How are we supposed to convince people we’re in love if we can barely stand to be around each other? We need space. And time—time away from each other and away from other people’s eyes. Otherwise this experience will be like living in a pressure chamber.”

“Still dramatic,” I say, moving to the fridge. I pull out a fancy-ass can of water and offer it to her. She shakes her head, so I crack the seal. “I’m not leaving.”

“Really? This is the hill you’re choosing to die on?”

“It’s just for a few weeks.” Though from the look on Jimmy’s face, it could be months. Maybe the whole three months. Maybe we’ll kill each other before then.

“A few weeks where I’ll sleep . . . where?” She glances around, her consternation clear. “I can’t go back to Inwood—I was evicted.”

“You can’t go back to Inwood because we agreed we’d live under the same roof.”

“It doesn’t have to be this roof!”

“Yeah, it does.”

“Why—why does it?”

“Because I said so.”

“And where will I sleep?” she demands.

“You can sleep on the couch.”