The humiliation, the betrayal, the sick twist of wanting to go back up there, to take Andie in my arms, to forgive her for everything, make me nauseous.
But I can’t.
Not now.
Not ever.
The last thing I remember, before the world tilts on its axis, is Andie’s face on the screen: beautiful, wild, hungry for me, and gone forever.
The toolbox hits the truck bed with a bang. I slam the door, turn the key, and drive away, praying that I never have to see any of them again.
But I know it won’t work.
Nothing ever does.
17
THE UGLY TRUTH COMES OUT
Andie
The key is so cold it burns.
I stand in the narrow vestibule of Thomas’s building, the key he gave me clenched in my palm, my breath fogging in the uncertain gap between indoors and out. The river wind shoves at the glass doors behind me, the kind of wind that seeps through walls and bones. The rest of the world is a blur because I can’t see. I can’t hear. I can’t think of anything, but the mess my life has become. For a long moment I stay just like this, staring up at the bank of elevators, not moving, not even sure if I can move.
My phone is in my other hand, thumb hovering over the screen. I haven’t let go of it for hours. It’s as if there’s still some magic in the device—a last hope that the words on it, the call history, could change or blink or vibrate with a message from him. But the display is nothing but a row of unanswered texts, blue bubbles hanging like baited hooks in a dark current. I kepttexting Thomas last night, begging him to listen, but to no avail. He never wrote back.
I use the key to activate the elevator, and wait. When the doors open, the cab is empty. The mirror inside throws my face back at me: pale, hair limp under my hat, eyes so rimmed and swollen it looks like I’ve lost a fight. I step in, hit “PH,” and lean into the corner, phone clenched in both hands like a prayer.
On the way up, I press redial one last time. The elevator is silent but for the wheeze and hum of the gears, but then Thomas’s voice fills the small space: his recorded voicemail, low and polished, a little flat, the “You’ve reached Thomas Moreland. Please leave a message” barely concealing the Minnesota vowels.
I listen all the way through, let it beep, and then I hang up before I can say anything. I watch my own fingers shake as I do it.
At the top, the doors open to the penthouse, and for a moment, everything feels okay. But then, I notice that the lights are off. Everything is dark and silent, and the sound of my heart is louder than the faintshhhof the elevator doors as they close behind me.
I grip the key, heart pounding.
I step forward,and see that there’s a single low lamp on off to the right, its light pooling in a perfect circle on the living room rug. Heavy curtains are drawn tight against the skyline; behind them, the city glimmers in a muted grid, smeared and streaked with winter haze. There’s a Scotch bottle open on the bar anda matching cut-glass tumbler in Thomas’s hand, the color of it catching the lamp and turning everything gold and brown.
He’s sitting in the big leather chair by the window. Jacket off, sleeves rolled to the elbow, collar open at the throat. I can see the pulse in his neck. His eyes are all shadow.
He doesn’t get up when I come in. He just watches me, the glass resting on his knee, the other hand clamped on the arm of the chair. For a second, he looks like he’s not sure what I am—a burglar, a stray, a ghost he conjured by accident.
“Hi,” I say, voice small. The word disappears into the air, lost before it even reaches him.
He waits. He doesn’t invite me in. He doesn’t ask if I want a drink. He just stares at me with those blue eyes, the same eyes that saw me nude and trembling, spread open on his bed, calling his name. Those eyes that could look at me for hours and never blink.
“Come here,” he says, finally. The words are soft but not gentle.
I walk across the silent carpet, feeling like a trespasser. Every step closer, I smell the Scotch—peaty and sweet and laced with something burned. I smell, too, the faint echo of my own perfume, the one I left here last weekend, a ghost on the fabric of the couch. The memory lands with a jolt, cruel and nostalgic.
I stop three feet from him, because anything closer would mean forgiveness, and I don’t deserve that.
He doesn’t look at me, not directly. He sets the glass down on the little side table, making a point of it, the heavy crystal ticking loud in the quiet.
He asks, “Was it true?” His voice is flat, almost expressionless. “The bet. Was it real, or was Stella just making up nasty shit to see if she could ruin my life?”
I feel the words hit like a slap. I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out at first. When I finally force it, my voice cracks on the first syllable.
