Page 59 of The Bet
Thomas smiles, just a flicker at the mouth, nothing like the wolfish grins he gave me in private. “Hi, sweetheart.” His voice is lower than usual, almost hoarse. “You’re a sight for sore eyes. I’ve missed you today.”
His words make my heart pound because again, we’ve been dating in secret for a while now, and our souls are absolutely entwined. Yet it’s hard because now I literally live with hisdaughter in an off-campus apartment. It’s difficult for me to slip away unnoticed, and when I do, I make up excuses that sound lame, even to me. I remember the last time I tried to sneak out to meet Thomas.
“Are you really working this much?” Mary Kate asked when I said I had to cater another event.
“Oh yeah,” I fibbed, slinging my bag over my shoulder. “The location is far too, so I thought I’d just stay overnight with a friend.”
“Who?” Kayleigh asked, her brow scrunching. “Do we know them?”
“No, because it’s someone I cater with,” I answer lightly. “Bye now!”
The girls nodded, but I could tell they were suspicious because it’s summer, traditionally a slow time for the school. Yet I’m always working events, so it seems a little fishy. Ah well. A girl can only do so much. With a sigh, I wrap my hands around the latte waiting for me. The ceramic is hot, almost scalding, but I hold on until my knuckles pale. Thomas watches this, his own hands curled tight around his glass, thumb stroking the rim in a restless loop.
“I miss you too. And thanks for the coffee,” I say, raising my cup.
He nods. “The joe is terrible here,” he says, with a twitch of amusement. “But the ambiance makes up for it.”
I take a sip, and he’s right—the coffee is acidic, thin, more like battery acid than anything else. But I keep drinking, if only for something to do with my hands.
Sunlight streams in through the window. A couple in the far corner murmurs in French, so softly the sound dissolves into the hiss of the espresso machine. The record skips, then restarts. Time feels slow and sticky, like it’s resisting our presence.
“Have you been waiting long?” I ask.
“No,” he says, “I like to watch the weather.” His gaze drifts to the window, then back to me, as if I’m more interesting.
There’s a rhythm to this, I realize. A dance of silence and small talk, of watching and being watched. I let it play out, sipping my latte, feeling the air between us flex and contract.
After a while, I say, “You look tired.”
He shrugs, the sweater pulling tight across his shoulders. “I flew in this morning. London was a disaster.”
I want to ask why, but I can tell he doesn’t want to talk about work. He wants something else, something quieter. I tuck my hair behind my ear and look down at the table, studying the grain in the wood, the ring where his glass has left a mark.
Thomas reaches out, slow and deliberate, and touches my hand—just a single fingertip, then all five, spreading across my knuckles. His hand is warm, rough with the fine callus of someone who lifts weights regularly. The contact is so small and yet so overwhelming that I freeze, unable to move.
He lets his hand linger there, then withdraws. “I missed you, Andie,” he says, very quietly. “I really mean it. More than I thought I would.”
I don’t say it back, but he reads it in my eyes.
For a long minute, neither of us speaks. We just let the sounds of the café settle over us: the scrape of a chair leg, the low hum of Billie’s voice, the patter of rain. Outside, the world is cold and gray, but inside, it feels like the last safe place on earth.
Finally, Thomas sets his mug down, hard enough that it clinks. “We should talk about this,” he says. “About us. If you’re comfortable.”
I nod, but my heart is beating so fast it drowns out the words.
He leans forward, elbows on the table, fingers tented. “When this started, I thought it was just chemistry.” He watches my face for a reaction. “Just a fling, nothing else. But it’s more than that now. You know it is.”
I can’t look at him, so I fix my gaze on the rising swirl of milk in my cup. “It is,” I say, barely above a whisper.
He exhales, the sound shaky. “It scares the hell out of me, Andie. You’re so young. I’m…” He doesn’t finish the sentence.
I finally meet his eyes, and the nakedness in them nearly undoes me. “I’m not that young,” I say. “And you’re not that old.”
He laughs, soft and genuine. “You’re right. But the math isn’t the problem.”
“What is?” My hands tighten on the mug.
“Stella,” he says, the word landing like a dropped weight. “She’s the problem.”
