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His shoulders sag, but then he comes to stand next to me. There’s something he’s not telling me, and it’s making me feel queasy. I wonder what—or who—is in his loft that he doesn’t want me to see.
“Unless you don’t want me to go upstairs?” I say the words, but I don’t know that I really want the answer. I’m terrified that he’ll take the easy out I’ve just given him.
“No, of course not,” he says, stepping a little closer as the doors open. He holds his arm out as if he’s afraid the doors will suddenly shut on me.
Once I’m in the elevator, he steps in and presses the button for his floor and the one to close the doors. The elevator climbs, slowly, and I’m reminded of another slow elevator ride I once took with him. He smiles and scratches the side of his chin, his fingernails scraping against his faint stubble.
“What?” I ask.
“Just thinking I’ve only ever been more nervous in an elevator once before.”
“You were nervous that night?” I ask, shaking my head with a little laugh.
“Definitely,” he says.
“You didn’t seem it.”
“It was all an act,” he says. “I think I knew on some level, you know? That this was something big. And I didn’t want to mess it up before it started.”
I try to suppress a smile, though I can do nothing to stop the heat from flushing in my cheeks. I clear my throat, refocusing on the part of what he said that makes my stomach dip.
“You’re nervous now?” I ask.
He lets out a low, muffled chuckle. “Honestly?”
“Yes. Please.”
His blue eyes meet mine and go round with emotion. “I’m scared shitless.”
My heart hammers in my chest and I press my hand to where it beats away. The elevator doors open.He holds his arm across the doors and waits for me to exit, then steps just ahead of me and lets me follow him to his door. Usually he would let me lead. My heart is racing as we walk down the long corridor to his massive loft.
When we finally reach the door, he hesitates, then turns the key in the lock. Then he pauses again. My bladder pulses as if it knows we’re almost to the holy land.
“Derek?” I ask, waddling from foot to foot.
“I… just, sorry it’s such a mess.”
He opens the door for me and flicks on a light and I walk inside.
And stare, open-mouthed.
He wasn’t joking about it being a mess. Gone is the massive industrial loft space big enough for a decent-sized wedding reception. Gone are the wall-to-wall windows and the cavernous emptiness and cold bachelor pad vibe. Instead, there’s drywall and framed walls boxing in what is now a clearly defined living-dining room space.
“What—”
“Come on,” he says, placing his hands on my shoulders and leading me toward the guest bathroom. “Watch your step there,” he says, using his foot to kick a putty knife out of the way. He stops in front of the door to the guest bathroom, which is now next to what appears to be a framed-out room that hasn’t been dry-walled yet.
“Go ahead, use the bathroom. Then I’ll give you a tour.”
I do as he asks and go inside the bathroom. I get to work relieving my bladder and I look around the space. It doesn’t appear as though it’s been touched in whatever it is Derek has been doing. Except there is something different. There’s shower gel and shampoo in the shower. There’s a razor on the sink. They look like his, but I don’t understand why he would be using this bathroom.
I finish up and wash my hands and then with a deep breath, walk back into what appears to be an active construction zone.
He’s waiting in the dining room, which now has a beautiful wood table and chairs.
“Do you want something to drink?” he asks.
I nod, because I can’t seem to make the talking happen. As he goes back to the kitchen, I take in another look.
