Page 72 of The Bet
Instead, I say, “Fine.” My voice is steady, but I can feel my pulse stuttering in my throat. “I’ll be out in an hour.”
He lets go, steps back, his hands falling to his sides.
“Thank you,” he says, and the words sound like they cost him something.
I turn, pick up the trays, and carry them toward the kitchen, the glass rattling just enough to give me away. I don’t look back, not even once.
But as I pass through the service door, I feel the weight of his stare settle on my shoulders, hot and heavy as ever. Oh god, what have I done? I belong to Thomas Moreland … and I can feel his possession, even now.
19
THERE'S NOTHING COFFEE CAN'T FIX
Thomas
The Lamborghini shivers as I watch the service entrance, engine purring so quietly you’d think it was holding its breath. The leather seat is slick against my back, the air perfumed with a double shot of cedar cologne and the sweet, faint glue of luxury car interiors. Out on the curb, donors and faculty shuffle toward waiting Ubers, the women with their tiny purses and the men shaking hands too loudly. I ignore them. Every few seconds I sweep the mirror, waiting for her to emerge.
I run my thumb along the edge of the paddle shifter, not quite pulling it, and flex my right hand on the gear lever, knuckles popping in the low dashlight. Every time the front door swings open I tense, but it’s never her. I check my watch, even though the car keeps perfect time. Twelve thirty, then twelve thirty-two. I can see all the way down the blacktop to the service exit, where the catering crews are supposed to punch out in a little wave, but no one’s come through in ages.
Then, finally, a shape slips out into the lamp-lit rectangle of the alley. At first it’s just a grey hoodie and sweatpants, anonymous, baggy. But as she walks, I see the bounce of her hair—up, this time, a messy coil that’s already coming undone. She’s slung a shapeless canvas bag over one shoulder. It would almost be funny, if it wasn’t breaking me.
She doesn’t notice the car at first. She pauses under the bug-splattered floodlight, squints at her phone, types a message. The angle of her neck, the way her shoulders hunch up against the cold, the way her chin pulls down when she checks her phone—it’s so vulnerable it makes my teeth hurt. My cock stirs in my pants, and I’m furious with myself for it. After everything, after two months, this is the first and only thing that hasn’t changed.
I tap the brake, letting the LEDs strobe the street a soft blue. She sees the car now, straightens. There’s a flash of confusion, then something harder: a look like she’s preparing for a punch to the gut. She crosses the lot in a straight line, determined. Each step leaves a dark print in the wet. I watch her get closer, count the paces. At five yards, she stops to tuck a wisp of hair behind her ear, then opens the door and slides in, shutting it quietly behind her.
Andie sits upright, not looking at me. The hoodie swamps her, sleeves halfway down her hands. There’s a pink mark on her right wrist, a sharp crescent—maybe from a glass that broke, or from the way she holds her fists when she’s angry. The scent of her, half sweat and half hand lotion, fills the cabin, driving out the car’s artificial perfection.
For a second, we don’t say anything. I let the silence stretch, because I’m not sure what will come out if I speak first. She sets her bag in her lap, holds it there like a riot shield, and finally glances at me, her eyes cool and bright.
“Your date seems to have vanished,” she says. Her voice is dry, paper-thin, but I hear the tremor under it. “Does she know you’re stalking the waitstaff now, or is that a surprise for the ride home?”
I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. “I sent her home in an Uber,” I say, keeping my voice flat. “This is more important.”
She turns to the window, arms folded. “You shouldn’t have approached me,” she says. “I’m not sure what you want me to say.”
I don’t answer right away. I just watch her, the line of her jaw and the way the city lights flicker over her skin as we pass under each sodium lamp. Her reflection in the glass is distorted, doubled; one girl with two faces, neither of them sure what the other is doing.
She holds my gaze for a full five seconds, then looks away again. I pull out of the lot without another word, ease the Lambo into the empty night, and steer us toward nowhere in particular. The roads are shimmering under the amber streetlights, and the only sound is the liquid murmur of the engine and the hiss of the tires. In the rearview, the city is black glass, every window a blank stare.
I shift gears, thumb the wheel, focus on the lines of the road. She’s still staring out the window, but her hands are twisting the strap of her bag, tighter and tighter, until her knuckles blanch.
“You looked good in there,” I say. The words land between us like a lit cigarette. “You looked like you were in control.”
She scoffs. “You must need glasses. I was in control of exactly nothing.” There’s a pause. “Except maybe the napkin count.”
I smile, just barely, but it doesn’t reach my eyes. The silence that grows is like a second cabin, built inside the first: airtight, pressurized, impossible to escape. I drive us through the city with both hands on the wheel, sometimes glancing over just to watch her profile in the passing light. She doesn’t notice, or pretends not to.
After a mile, she says, “Where are we going?”
I think about it. “Someplace where we can talk.”
She doesn’t answer, but she doesn’t object either. I can tell she’s weighing the odds of escape, but in the end she relaxes back into the seat and lets her eyes drift closed for a moment. I watch her chest rise and fall. She’s breathing like she’s just run up the stairs, but her face is almost serene.
The city is deserted at this hour. The streets all look the same: empty bus stops, dead traffic lights, the odd headlights of a taxi or a cop car. The city has a different texture at night—softer, but also crueler. Each block is its own little island, and everything in between is nothingness.
At a red light, I turn to her. “Are you hungry?”
She opens her eyes. “Not really.” But then, after a second: “I could use coffee.”
