But he’ll be here any second.
Then in the next, Andrew’s roundin’ the corner like the night never ended, all long legs, dark jeans, black shirt huggin’ his chest.
And his fuckin’ walk—lazy, Jersey swagger.
She wants to scream at him.
She wants to punch him in the face.
She wants to lick the fuckin’ sweat off his temple.
He looks up, then sees her standin’ there, and it kills whatever rhythm he had. His feet slow, shoulders goin’ stiff. His hand runs down his face, across his jaw to buy himself time. Then he looks left, toward the deli, anywhere but her.
He stops right in front of her, sidewalk still wet from the rain under his boots. Her face says everything. He knows before she even opens her mouth.
“Last night? Shoulda never fuckin’ happened.”
He steps back, slidin’ his hand into his back pocket, eyes drift off again, anywhere but her. Then he lets out a breath of a laugh. Not angry, but fuckin’ tired. Like he ran this scene in his head so many times and hoped he was wrong.
“Swore I wouldn’t do this,” she says. “Said you wouldn’t lose this job, but I can’t be near you after last night. And you said it yourself:burn it, and it never fuckin’ happened—fire makes sure it don’t come back to haunt you.”
He goes still with his words she threw back at him.
She exhales, finishing it.
“So that’s what I’m doin’, Harding. You’re fired.”
His lips part. Maybe to speak. Maybe not.
Then he nods a small nod, standin’ there a second too long, avoidin’ her gaze, jaw tight as he looks off. Until his eyes drop to the pavement.
She can't tell if he's mad, ashamed, or regretful.
Or just done.
Then he turns and walks off.
And never looks back.
10 /DUST IN THE WIND
KANSAS
// ALLISON - NOV 04, 8:05 AM - PENTHOUSE - UPPER EAST SIDE, NYC //
The phone's staring at me from the kitchen island,
Andrew’s text sitting on my screen,
dragging its eyes over me,
leaning against the granite,
cracking its knuckles, cocky as hell.
It’s trying me, glowing just to piss me off,
challenging me to make the next move.
