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Needless to say, I’ve been thinking about that morning we spent in the elevator a lot—every time I pass it to make my way inexpertly down the stairs, something Danny insists on helping me with whenever he hears me opening the door. I guess he’s stopped wearing his headphones so he can be prepared to jump into action every time I take a near plunge down the stairs.
Since he always goes out of his way to help me and make my life easier, I’ve tried to do the same for him. I know a few other neurodivergent people, but I’ve heard the old axiom that no two autistic people experience autism the same way. So I researched ways to make people with sensory differences more comfortable. I’ve started giving myself only one spray of perfume, rather than two. Turning the TV down. I only use the SAD lamp when his door is closed.
We’ve fallen into a routine that I like, but I know it can’t last. I’ll go back to my life—to the vampire hours of the bar, and it’ll immerse me the way it always does. And Danny won’t want to follow me there. We’ll be like ships in the night, our only communication relegated to those notes we pass back and forth.
Truthfully, I depend on those notes. And when I got up this morning, a week and five days after I broke my ankle—yes, I’m counting, dammit—the first thing I do is head out to the kitchen to check for one.
It’s there on the kitchen island, beneath a latte in a paper cup.
It may be basic, but it has caffeine. Come on. Tell me you don’t enjoy pumpkin spice.
I take a sip before realizing the drink is cold, probably because Danny wakes up hours before I do. He’s the kind of insane super person who gets up early to work out. I’ve learned he usually bikes for an hour or so before coming back to shower and start his workday. I like watching him walk in sweaty, when I’m up in time to see it. It’s a nice sight to startmyday.
I have also, in my captivity, become a pervert, because I think of licking the sweat off his arm. Of asking if I can watch him take a shower. Of stripping off those tight shorts he wears, which leave very little to the imagination—not that I’m only working with imagination…
I’ve felt his hard dick, pressed up against me, and I think about it at night, when I’m alone. When I know that all I’d have to do is hobble the several feet from my room to his to claim what I want.
I’ve been telling myself the captivity is to blame, and also that I wouldn’t feel this way if I’d gotten any action recently. But I know better than to fully believe it. Danny’s intense and funny and smart and good, and Ilikehim. I can’t remember the last time I actually liked someone I was also attracted to.
Sighing, I nuke the coffee in a mug, then blow on it and take a sip.
Dammit, when it’s not as cold as the arctic tundra, itisdelicious.
I write an A- on the note, on the off-chance that I might miss Danny if he leaves his office-slash-closet room, and promise myself I’ll impress him with the drink I concoct tonight.
I make my way to the couch, where I do some seated exercises and listen to the last few episodes of the third season ofThe Murderer Next Door. And, fine, I do something that’s become a bit of a habit and is arguably creepier than using those binoculars—
I Google Daphne Elliot.
According to social media, Daphne is at a conference in Copenhagen this week, because she’s the kind of woman who gets sent on business trips to Copenhagen. She’s sleek and auburn-haired and very…well, adult looking, with these little wire glasses that make her look like a Math-a-lete. AsexyMath-a-lete.
The first time I Googled her, I had a good reason—or at least I assured myself it was one. She’d asked Danny to meet at Glitterati, so it seemed feasible that I might recognize her. But I haven’t seen her before, or at least I don’t remember her. So I sent a screenshot of her photo to Azalea and asked,Do you recognize her?
Three dots popped up, and my heart beat a little faster until the message came through from my friend.
Do I ever. She’s a triple threat. Good job, hotttt, and also friendly. But she’s sadly heterosexual. (Plays tiny violin.) Why?
I told her, acting like it was no big deal to me if Danny decided he wanted to be with her again, and she responded,lucky guy, which didn’t elevate my mood. Truthfully, I’d been hoping Azalea was going to tell me that Daphne is one of those people who asks for five substitutions in a drink and still sends it back. Of course, just because she was nice to Azalea doesn’t mean she’s a nice person.
I’ll bet those conference attendees in Copenhagen have nothing good to say about her, even if they’re all grinning at her in the photographs like she’s the second coming and they’d like her to autograph their mousepads.
With another sigh, I toss my phone across the couch. I try to tell myself it would be a good thing if Danny and Daphne decide to embark on a little second chance romance. If he’s with someone else, I’ll have to stop noticing him. He can just be my roommate, the way he’s supposed to be.
By early afternoon, I’m so bored that I’d voluntarily go anywhere—the DMV, the post office, or even the gynecologist. Hell, I’d go to an aging white male gynecologist who says things like “getting up there in years, girl” and asks intrusive questions about my sex life while rooting around in my vagina. So I’m relieved as hell when Shauna texts to confirm we’re still on for our four o’clock appointment to see Josie the Great. Delia says she’s coming too, probably because it gives her a way to check on me without seeming like she’s checking on me.
By the time the buzzer rings, I’ve exhausted everything I could possibly do in the apartment—with the exception of Danny.
“Oh, thank the sweet lord,” I mutter, climbing to my feet with the crutches. “I’ll be right down!” I say into the buzzer, better at balancing now that I’ve been on these suckers for a while. I manage to get my coat on, then grab my bag from the hook Danny mounted for it on the wall by the door and leave the apartment. I make it down a couple of steps before it happens—I plant one of the crutches badly, and I don’t know if I’ll be able to course correct. Panic pounds through my veins as I feel myself teetering dangerously, and I’m sure I’m going to fall and break the other ankle. I’m going to—
I hear the door slamming open. Danny swears, then seconds later his arm is wrapping around my back. It’s a black sweater today. I figured it would make his eyes even more intense and sexy.
A sidelong glance confirms that it does, dammit.
“I don’t need help,” I lie, mostly because I’m disconcerted by how much of a relief it is that he’s offering. Again. He keeps offering me things I didn’t know I needed, and I keep taking them. Usually, when people offer me help, I deny them, but it’s different with Danny. Maybe it’s because he offers help in the way I want it, and he’s so unobtrusive about it, it feels natural. Like giving someone a cookie after you’ve made a tray of them.
“Yup, that’s obvious, tough guy. I could carry you down like last time, or we could walk like this. What’ll it be?”
“Walk like this,” I say, because it somehow feels like there’s more dignity to it.
