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ChapterThirty-Six
Mira
“What the actual fuck?” I say, because sometimes those are the only words that will do. Most people don’t get stuck on an elevator once—twice is really pushing it. Except itisthe same elevator, and I’m betting we’re the only two people stupid enough to give a malfunctioning elevator a second chance.
It’s the first time I’ve taken it since that day. I was missing Danny, and I figured, what the hell? Might as well make myself feel worse. I felt pulled to take it down into the garage, and I didn’t have the gumption to tell myself no, because it felt like I’d gotten enough no’s lately.
Maybe I knew on some subconscious level that he would be here in the building. He’d said he was meeting with Big Mike today, although not where. That fact that he’s here—that he boarded on the third floor—means that he was in there. He was beneath me while I was swinging around the apartment on my crutches, getting ready for an afternoon at work.
Now, he’s here, standing in front of me in a blue-checkered shirt—a definite win on my part—and he’s so damn adorable I hate him for it. I hate him and I want to kiss him, and I’m dying to tell him about Deacon and Josie and the construction paper turkeys. I got bored last night and started an Instagram account for the turkeys, and even though I only got seven pity likes, it was the most exciting thing that had happened to me since learning about Deacon and that clown.
“Did you do this?” I accuse, because I’d like to accuse him of something, and I’m not sure I want to come right out and tell him he’s been breaking my heart.
“No,” he says, but he’s staring at me in that way of his—like he wants to eat me with his eyes. “But I’ve never been more grateful to this elevator.”
“You want to hold me hostage?” I ask, my tone hostile even though my heart is beating hard. It’s more him than the elevator. His clean, familiar smell, the look of him in that shirt I chose. His hair curling slightly. His eyes so familiar. The way he can be taller than most people in a room but never seem to loom over them.
“I’ve wanted to talk to you, more than anything,” he tells me, “but I didn’t know what to say. Now, maybe I’ll have enough time to think of the words.”
“Boredom does strange things to a person,” I say, thinking of those turkeys.
“I’ve never been bored when I’m with you.”
His words furrow into me because I feel that way about him too. So many times, I’ve brought men like Byron home because they were fun and loud. Because they were people who stood out in a crowded bar. I wouldn’t have noticed Danny in a place like that. He’d have been sitting in a corner or outside, his mind in far-off places. But he’s the only man I’ve ever been with who doesn’t bore me in daily life. Who says something interesting almost every time he opens his mouth—even if it’s about the weather.
“You went to see Big Mike,” I say. There’s a popping sound, and I flinch. I glance up at the light, which flickers but doesn’t go out.
Danny takes a half-step toward me, as if to comfort me, but I give him a hard look and he stops, looking unsure. Maybe I’m a bad person for wanting him to feel that way, but I do. I’ve spent the last few days drowning in uncertainty. Feeling like an abandoned cat someone left in an apartment after moving out. Worse: I’ve been marooned with his stuff. With his smell. With everything but him and his laptop.
“Yes,” he says. “And I have a lot to tell you about that. But right now, there’s something else I want to say.”
“So the words are coming?”
“They’re starting to.” He swallows, and I watch his throat, seeing a slight mark on it that I left there. I want to kiss it. I’d also like to bite it harder.
“So?” I say coolly, acting like nothing he could possibly say would surprise me.
“Do you have a pen?” he asks. “Or preferably a Sharpie?”
Okay, thatisa little surprising. Without thinking, I lean against the side wall so I can rummage through my bag and find a black Sharpie. I was using it to make those damn turkeys, and I slid some supplies into my bag so I could make a few for the bar. Something for which Azalea will surely give me shit.
“Thank you,” he says, taking it from my fingers, and the place where our fingers brushed feels more alive from the slight contact—as if my skin is inviting his home again.
“What are you going to do?” I ask, rubbing my hand against my shirt as if I can shake his effect on me. “Write a giant help sign? I know what Dunkins said, but I doubt the big man upstairs is watching us.”
“Maybe not, but the big man downstairs from us was watching.”
Us.
“I thought you didn’t live here anymore,” I snap. “They say possession is nine tenths of the law.”
“Shane might have something to say about that once we get downstairs.”
“Ifwe get downstairs.”
“We’ll get downstairs,” he says, and there’s such confidence in his voice that I believe him. All in all, I’m not as scared as I should be. Confined spaces usually leave me breathless, but my attention is so totally focused on him that the whole stuck-on-an-elevator-again conundrum is like white noise. Except, no, that’s not totally true—it’s because he’s with me that I’m not scared.
I feel shaky as he gets down on his knees with the Sharpie, because I’m reminded of the things he did to me the last time he got down on his knees. I’m not proud, but if he shoved my pants down and buried his face between my legs, I wouldn’t push him away. I’d hold his head there and ask for more.
