I want to sink through those expensive hardwood floors and disappear forever.
He turns and starts walking toward what must be the interior of the house. I follow, still clutching my soggy twenty, my face hot enough to probably dry out the soaked bill through sheer embarrassment.
“I really appreciate this,” I babble, following him through rooms that get progressively more obscene in terms of luxury. “I know this is an inconvenience. I’m sure the owner won’t be thrilled about some random researcher showing up and dripping everywhere. I mean, God, can you imagine? Being stuck with some billionaire asshole who thinks his money makes him better than everyone? That would be the worst. Like, thank God you’re here and not some entitled rich guy who’d probably make me wait outside or something.”
The words just keep coming, nervous energy and residual cold and absolute mortification combining into verbal diarrhea.
We finally enter an enormous great room. It has cathedral ceilings. Floor-to-ceiling windows. Furniture that looks like it belongs in an architectural magazine. A massive stone fireplace that could fit four people inside it, currently blazing.
Is that where he puts the bodies?
I notice something else. So far, I haven’t seen any holiday decorations at all. No Christmas tree. No holiday stockings. No mistletoe. Either he’s the Grinch, or...
“Where is everyone?” I ask suddenly, looking around. “Don’t places like this usually have a whole staff?”
“I’m here alone,” he replies.
Something about the way he says it makes mereallylook at him. At the expensive watch on his wrist. The way he moves through this space with complete familiarity, not deference. The casual authority in every gesture.
The realization hits me like an avalanche.
Oh no.
Oh no no no.
“You’re the owner.” It comes out as barely a whisper.
He nods once.
Every single thing I’ve done in the last twenty minutes plays back through my mind in excruciating detail.
I helped myself to his hospitality. Dumped my pockets all over his floor, including a tampon and a romance novel with a half-naked man on the cover. Required his assistance removing my clothes. Called him hot to his face. Tried to tip him. With twenty soggy dollars. Insulted rich guys in general and him specifically while standing in his house wearing his clothes.
My face goes from warm to absolutely scorching. I can feel the heat radiating off my cheeks. I want to melt into the floor. I want to rewind time and make literally any different choice. I want to have stayed in the cold and died of hypothermia because that would be less painful than this moment.
“I...” My voice cracks. “I didn’t... I thought you were...”
I can’t even finish the sentence. What am I supposed to say?
I thought you werethe help?
That makes it worse somehow.
He’s watching me have this complete meltdown with that same unreadable expression. Not angry, not amused. Just... waiting.
“Well if you’re a serial killer,” I manage finally. “Can you just go ahead and kill me now? Please?” The last word is more of a squeak than actual spoken English.
Unexpectedly, one corner of his mouth twitches. It’s not quite a smile, but it’s something.
“You’re still shaking,” he says. “Sit by the fire. I’ll make coffee.”
And just like that, he walks away, leaving me standing there in his oversized clothes, clutching my soggy twenty-dollar bill, wondering how it’s possible to die of embarrassment and simultaneously worry about surviving hypothermia with a man I’ve just catastrophically insulted.
2
Gregory
The universe has a real fucking sick sense of humor.
