“No, it’s not,” he says for the second time tonight, crouching down again and shifting my dress, words firm like his thumbs working on the straps of my heels.
I blink, watching the breadth of his shoulders as thosegood handsmake quick work of my heels.
I think his thumb might skate over the arch of my left foot when he takes the second shoe off.
I think he might even take a shuddering breath when it does.
But Miller pushes to stand, his shoulders rolling back when he tips his chin towards the bow tied around my neck. “You need help with that?”
“I think so,” I admit, using my palms on the mattress for leverage to stand back up, but it’s easier without my heels. Turning so he can get to work on the bow, I glance back over my shoulder and whisper, “Don’t look, please.”
“I won’t,” he breathes against the back of my neck. I don’t glance back, but I know his eyes are closed.
His fingers brush across the silk, and I feel the gentle tug on the bow, the way the dress whispers over my skin when it turnsinto an untied sheath, falling down my body and pooling around my feet, leaving me in my bra and underwear.
I don’t bother to grab my pajamas, and I don’t bother to double-check that he’s not looking when I crawl into bed.
“You can open them now,” I say when I have the covers tugged up to my neck.
He blinks his eyes open, one hand flexing at his side before he shoves them both into his pants pockets. “Get some sleep, Ren.”
He’s halfway out the door when I call his name. “Miller?”
“Yeah?” He catches himself on the door, tattooed hand tightening against the frame.
Tucking my chin against my covers, I chew on the inside of my cheek before offering, “If you ever want to turn your list of things you don’t do into things you try again, I’ll help.”
“Yeah?” he repeats, the light in the hall casting a shadow on his face so I can’t really tell, but I think the sharp planes soften with a smile. “You’d play catch with me?”
“Sure.” I nod. “Can’t promise that I’m very good, though.”
His smile turns lopsided, and he taps a thumb against the wood. “That’s alright. I’m a decent teacher.”
He lifts his hand off the frame in a final good night, and when I drop back against the bed, blinking up at the ceiling, I think everything starts to spin. I can’t tell if it’s the champagne or if it’s this new sort of inertia from the asteroid that killed me, hurtling backwards in time like it never made contact at all, and all the pieces of me start to fly back into place.
Everything spins when I wake up, too.
But this time, I’m confident it’s from the champagne.
Or maybe it’s from the onslaught of memories from last night pelting me with every step I take towards the kitchen to get a glass of water.
All the debris of embarrassment floating around like the asteroid destroying things and causing extinction events is actually me.
I press my palm to my forehead, cringing, when I wait for the water to turn cold.
Scott treating me like a wayward child.
Him, assessing and cataloguing and categorizing. Always disappointed in his findings.
Me, drinking way too much champagne at an important work event anyway.
Miller—Miller.
Miller, sitting there while I droned on and on about mass extinction.
Miller listening when I told him some sob story about how I let a man tear me apart for the better part of a decade all in the name of love that wasn’t even real.
Miller picking up after me because I couldn’t even keep my purse on my arm.
