“I’m fine,” she answers, her voice tight. “The oil is a little cold.”
I nod. We both know that’s not the issue. It’s knowing I shouldn’t be doing this, nor should I want to, but I’d rather saw off my arm than walk away from this woman when she needs me.
I’d rather die.
As I continue to work, the current running between us becomes more tangible and dangerous. It hisses and cracks loud enough for our neighbors to hear, but Macy tries to squash it like a roach. “You’re good at this.”
“I’ve had plenty of practice.” Before her mind can run away on her, I remind her that I wasn’t always an agent. “Darcy used to get into everything as a kid. Bandages, stickers…”—my laugh rumbles throughout the bathroom—“Gorilla Glue.” In a flash, our eyes meet and hold. “This isnothingcompared to a jar of Gorilla Glue being mistaken for hair gel.”
Macy laughs, the delicate trickle calming some of the unease still bristling between us.
I undo all her efforts when my fingertips flutter against the skin beneath her swollen stomach. The air grows tense once more, though not in the same way as before. The tension is sexually charged and not at all one-sided. It is clear now that guilt no longer weighs down my decisions. Confusion does.
After clearing my throat, I focus on the last section of tape. There is too much murkiness swamping us to expect anything decent to come out of the carnage, so I need to listen to my head instead of my heart.
Although it’s nearly impossible with Macy, I’ll try my best.
“Almost done.”
Macy nods but remains quiet. Her eyes are on me, and the longer she stares, the more heated her skin under my hands becomes. I should say something, anything, to break the spell, but the words stick in my throat as well as the last section of tape sticks to Macy’s stomach.
I need time to think and sort through the mess. But I’d also give anything not to leave this bathroom for at least a month.
How the fuck is it possible to have such contrasting emotions?
This isn’t how Cameron’s reappearance was meant to go. She was supposed to run into my arms, where I’d promise again and again that I would never let anyone hurt her.
This could hurt her.
The reminder is the only reason I’m keeping things professional. Macy is my coworker and friend. That isallshe is.
Ignoring the screamed denial ripping through my head, I pick at the tape with more aggression than I’ve used previously. It finally comes away, but not without protest. A red welt spreads from one side of her stomach to the other. Before I can warn myself against it, I run my palm over the angry mark, soothing its irritation.
“Sorry,” I say again when Macy’s shocked hiss breaks through the pounding of my pulse in my ears. Even though I apologize, I don’t move my hand. I can’t. “I?—”
“Don’t,” she whispers as she places her hand over mine, holding it there.
In silence, we breathe as one as the wiggles under our conjoined hands narrow the space I’m endeavoring to place between us. I ought to create some distance, but I can’t. This is the only semblance of normalcy I have, and it is a fight not to clutch it as if it is my only lifeline.
Once Macy’s silent comfort assures me I’m not drowning on land, I say, “I should…” My reply starts confidently, but it trails off. I have no interest going back to the confusion I can’t unravel. It is safer here. More familiar.
But those points also reward Macy with the ability to read me as only she can. “Yeah. Me too.”
When she inches back, the soft cotton of her shirt slips over her swollen stomach before it bunches around my hand I still can’t move. My touch lingers for longer than anyone could classify as professional, but Macy doesn’t pull away. She rewardsme another brief stint of comfort I’m unsure I deserve, before she eventually whispers, “Goodnight, Grayson.”
Though it is a fight, I manage a weak farewell. “Night.”
As she slowly paces away from me, I almost admit that my earlier confession that Cameron’s appearance changes nothing between us was about more than work, but I can’t force the words from my mouth. Instead, I watch her disappear into the darkness of her room, leaving everything unsaid.
I remain in the bathroom for several long minutes with my heart in my throat and my mind a jumbled mess of confusion. My focus should be on Cameron’s reappearance and the reason she’s too scared to tell the truth, but before my head can overrule my heart, I march to Macy’s closed bedroom door and grip the doorknob for dear life.
I’m about to knock when my phone buzzes. Confusion swamps me when I peer at the screen. A message from Macy is highlighting my face in the darkness of the hall.
When I open her message, guilt slams into me. She forwarded me the photo she snapped of Cameron earlier.
Cameron’s haunted expression ends my selfishness, and the remembrance of my responsibilities crashes back into me.
This isn’t about me or my feelings.
