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He hooks his fingertips in the waistband of my panties and pulls them off. My shirt goes next. “Who, then?”
“You were happy.” Will’s stripping his own clothes off now. It’s dark in the bedroom. Too dark to see the fine details of his body. That doesn’t matter, because he shifts over me and I can feel every one of them. “Pretend everything’s right. Pretend I’m staying, because—”
His hand comes down over my mouth.
I must be imagining the tremble in it.
“You’re right,” he murmurs into my ear as he nudges his tip inside me. “Ishouldfuck you senseless again. I liked you that way, all pink and warm and filthy with my cum. Spread your thighs, sweetheart. Earn another thousand dollars. Pretend you’re never leaving.”
* * *
I don’t getto pretend very long, because the apartment is done by Sunday afternoon.
Not just repaired—completely rebuilt.
The people Will hired didn’t just fix the roof and repair the plaster. They tore out the drywall and replaced it. Then they repainted it—not the tired white that had been there before. Instead it’s a comfortable mauve in the living room, a soothing greige in the bedrooms. They tore up the thin carpet, leveled the floors, and replaced it with gorgeous wood planks.
All the thrift-store bed frames have been replaced with brand new ones.
Not only that, but we rode up in the elevator.
No more sign hanging from its chain. No more dusty, closed doors. He had that fixed, too.
I can’t believe it.
I keep walking from one room to the next, then stepping into the hall to make sure this is really ours.
“Bristol,” Ben calls from the bedroom. “Are you sure he didn’t make a mistake?”
“I’m sure.”
The twins have been asking that question since we walked in fifteen minutes ago.
Will had his driver drop us off with all our things. All of it was packed into new luggage. No garbage bags.
I’m torn, because I want him to be here with me.
And if hehadcome, I’d have made a fool of myself. Because I don’t have the words to thank him for this.
From my dad’s remodeled bedroom, I dial the landlord. This is the part I’ve been dreading. Explaining how I, Bristol Anderson, pulled this off.
He answers with a chipperwhat can I do for you?
“This is Bristol Anderson, subleasing apartment three-oh-six. I wanted to let you know that—”
“Oh, I’ve got all the information right here. Are you all moved in again?”
“Yes?” I clear my throat. “I mean, yes. We are. But I wasn’t sure if the paint colors—”
“It’s all fine,” he says. “Everything’s taken care of.”
This from the man who forbade us from hanging so much as a Post-it note on the walls. He objected to the paper-mache wreaths my brother and sister made for the fourth of July.
He’s complained about the magnets on our refrigerator, for God’s sake.
“Thank you,” I tell him. “Thank you so much.”
Those are words for the wrong person.
