Page 58 of Office Hours
I nod, trying to look serious. “No more risky hookups.”
He kisses me again, soft and slow. “Next time, my place.”
“Next time,” I promise, breathless.
We wait until the footsteps fade, then slip out of the room separately. Liam disappears with one last wave, turning the corner. Then, I go back and collect my stuff from the table.
“Everything alright?” Andie asks, a suspicious look on her face.
“Yeah fine,” I say with a fake yawn while slinging my backpack over my shoulder. “I’m going to head back to the room, I’m beat.”
Andie looks like she wants to say something but nods.
“Yeah, sure.”
With a smile, I take the elevator down and then walk out into the night, air icy and sharp, legs still shaking.
I know I should be scared, should be careful, should play by the rules.
But all I want is more.
The danger is half the fun.
And with Liam, I never want to be safe.
14
POPPING A DIFFERENT CHERRY
LIAM
My home is a museum of restraint, a gallery of right angles and sharp edges, empty of anything I can’t justify on a spreadsheet. There’s a plush sofa, books arranged by discipline and size, and a dining table made from reclaimed timber, so heavy I had to bribe three grad students to haul it in. I’m standing by the window, hands in my pockets, watching the reflection of myself pacing in the glass.
I’m waiting for her.
Nothing matters to me but her.
On the counter, there’s a shallow bowl of Marcona almonds that Simone adores, and an artful pile of gluten-free crackers so as not to disturb her sensitive digestive system. The kind of thing you’re supposed to offer a guest, even when she’s already spent the night here numerous times, even when you’ve memorized the way she arranges her shoes in the entryway, or the way she likes to drink orange juice with a straw even though she’s technically an adult.
It’s her influence, this urge to present some vision of “home.” After a decade of a dying marriage, and years spent ricocheting from office to classroom to bar, I had stopped bothering. But now I care. Simonemakesme care. I want her to see this place and imagine it as her own, to believe she could stay and never leave, that it would all be as easy as walking through the door and putting her bag down.
I swipe a few crumbs from the island with the side of my hand and stare at the clock. Fourteen minutes until she said she’d get here. My stomach is tight as a drumhead, and I try to tell myself it’s anticipation, not the old, stupid anxiety that’s been waking me up at three AM for as long as I can remember.
The truth is, I’m not worried about her. I’m worried about me.
Every day with Simone is a gift, which is the kind of phrase I used to mock before I became the guy who says it and means it. She’s light. Unedited. A walking contradiction, part brain and part animal, and I never know which one I’m going to get. When she laughs, I forget what decade it is. When she cries, which has happened exactly twice, I want to set the world on fire. I should be happy, and I am, but there’s a streak of dread under the surface that I can’t seem to sand out. Something’s going to ruin this, and that something is me.
My phone pings, and I glance down at the screen:
On my way. Traffic is terrible. Also I forgot the wine at home, so don’t judge me.
There’s a photo attached: her in the car, mouth in a cartoon pout, seatbelt cutting across the pale slope of her neck. I smile and type back:
Wine is overrated. I want you sober.
She replies in three seconds:
Lol are you gonna drug me instead?
