by London James
What’s going on in his head? Will I ever find out? I’ve spent most of my life trying to get closer to the answer, but he has a gift for surprising me with new, nasty parts of his personality. It’s like he’s the world’s least pleasant piñata.
I push the thought aside and open up some happier emails. I’ve been tapped to speak at a veterans’ charity event at the end of September, and one of my old employees has gotten a promotion at her new gig. I shoot off a few responses to smaller things, immersing myself in the work.
I rarely like to congratulate myself before things are fully settled, but we’re kicking ass. We’re growing steadily, but not so quickly that we can’t keep the pace up for a few more years. We’ll have enough money to fund all of our projects and more. But our success means that we are more valuable, and with more value comes more pressure to take the company public. My father’s constant reminders of that fly into my head.
Before long, my employees start trickling in. Most of them wave at me or pop in to say hi. I know every single person who works for me personally—I’m not the kind of CEO to sit in an ivory tower without talking to anyone who isn’t a manager. That’s something I would miss if I gave up control of the company. Going into work is hard some days, but it’s always worth it to be around some smart, hard-working people.
After nine o’clock, I go from meeting to meeting, hopping on various conference calls, and can hardly take a minute to breathe until one. My assistant makes a group order for salads, to my relief, so I don’t have to leave. I close the door to my office — I’m firmly against the open floor plan, those glassed-in offices that are popular in tech—, taking my salad to my desk.
I pull up some mindless YouTube videos and my personal email to decompress, but of course, I notice Briony is online. We haven’t spoken since the party over the weekend, but there isn’t much of a reason for us to. Once we both agreed to put what we’d done behind us, we headed back to the party separately and stayed away from each other for the rest of the night. No one seemed to notice where we’d gone.
I miss her, though. We had fallen into the habit of talking throughout the day whenever we had a free moment. Since my free moments were few and far between, I usually had a nice little backlog of her random thoughts and favorite memes to go through in the afternoon.
She hasn’t sent me anything since the party.
I hover over her name in my chat list, debating whether to message her. If I’m trying to not screw things up between us, I need to give myself more time to calm down. I close my email instead.
The rest of the day goes by in a blur, and before I know it, it’s 7 p.m. I’m tired and hungry—all I want to do is pick up some dinner and head home to watch TV with Sarge on the couch.
On my walk to the train, my phone starts buzzing in my pocket. My stomach clenches, hoping it isn’t Dad or the hospital. To my surprise, it’s Briony.
We never talk on the phone, so why is she calling?
“Hello?” I ask, stepping to the side so people walking faster than me can get by.
“Ash?” Briony sounds like she’s been crying, and there’s a lot of noise going on wherever she is. “Can you hear me?”
“What’s wrong?” I ask. Panic starts to flood through me.
“My apartment,” she says, hiccupping and sniffing. “My building fucking caught on fire.”
“Holy shit. Are you okay? What about Zara and the cat?” I stop. My heart starts racing.
“I mean, I’m fine, and Zara wasn’t home. Chunk is good, too, since I was able to wrap him in a blanket and carry him out, but I’m kind of freaking the fuck out,” she explains, still sounding shell-shocked. “Ben is on his flight and my parents are in Florida on vacation, so I called you. I’m not sure what to do, and I can’t seem to pull myself together.”
“I’m coming. Be there in less than twenty minutes,” I say. “Stay there.”
Before she can say anything, I hang up and snag a car. The driver must sense my worry because he books it to Briony’s apartment.
We can’t get onto the street itself because it’s packed with fire engines and news crews. The air is smoky, making the sky hazy. People are milling around the perimeter of the area, but I don’t see Briony.
I call her again, pushing through the crowd. She told me she was over between two fire engines.
I finally see her among the crowd, and a wave of relief washes over me. She really is safe.
She looks like hell. She must have been relaxing at home because she’s wearing cotton shorts and a tank top, her hair up in a messy bun. Her makeup has run down her face, and her eyes are red. Her bag is at her feet, along with a cat carrier that’s labeled PROPERTY OF FDNY. I can hear Chunk yowling away inside, possibly unaware that he just escaped death.
She hesitates a moment but opens her arms. I hug her, surprised at how relieved I am to hold her. She bursts into tears with her face buried in my shirt, her shoulders shaking. I stand still, trying not to tense up. Hearing her crying on the phone versus seeing her are two very different things. What the hell am I supposed to do? I want to make it better, but will I make things worse if I try to get her to calm down? Have I ever comforted someone as they cried?
“Thank you for coming,” she finally whispers, her crying slowing down.
“It’s no problem.” I pat her back softly. “Do you know what happened?”
She shakes her head. “I just know that there’s a ton of fire damage in the building, so I can’t go back in for the foreseeable future. All of my stuff besides what was in my work bag went up in flames.”
“It was probably that shitty wiring down in the garbage room,” I mutter, even though I have absolutely no evidence of that. I need to put my anger at her situation somewhere. “Stay with me,” I say before I can stop myself.
“I don’t want to be a bother,” she says, looking at her feet. She probably ran out without shoes, because the sandals she’s wearing are too big and clearly not hers.
“Don’t be ridiculous. I have a whole brownstone to myself, and you have nowhere to go. I have a comfortable guest room, and I’m close to a bunch of trains.” I squeeze her shoulders. “Please.”
“Why do I get the feeling that you’d carry me to your place like a caveman if I turned you down?”
“Because I probably would.” I pick up her bag. “Let’s go.”
Chapter Twelve
Briony
Everything feels surreal. One minute I was winding down after work and cooking dinner with a glass of wine, and the next I was out on the street with my hissing cat wrapped up like a burrito under one arm and my bag under the other. Everything I own besides what’s in my bag and on my back is gone. I don’t even have a pair of my own shoes. Thankfully, my laptop and wallet are safe, which will save me a lot of hassle. But all of my family photos, keepsakes, and favorite things are gone forever.
And now I’m at Ash’s place. I have never been inside, but I’ve actually walked past it a number of times, not realizing it was his. It’s one of many gorgeous old brownstones that the neighborhood is known for, with a huge staircase going up to the front door, which is painted red. I’m not quite sure what I expected his home to be like inside, but this isn’t it.
It’s surprisingly cozy, with rich brown wood furnishings and fuzzy rugs. Modern art lines the walls in the entryway. A big staircase goes to the second and third floors, and his living room appears to be to the left of where we’re standing. I can see a huge, fancy couch and a coffee table. I can’t imagine him relaxing in there, though. Maybe it’s just his formal living room.
Before I can take in any other details, Sarge comes running up to us, barking and wagging his tail. He ignores Ash and puts his nose right up against Chunk’s carrier, sniffing wildly. Chunk scoots to the back, hissing and spitting. I lift up the carrier even higher. He’s just as adorable as he was in the photo Ash showed me, but that doesn’t mean I’ll let him use my cat as a chew toy.
“Shoot, I wasn’t
thinking about how they’d interact,” Ash mutters, kicking off his shoes before pulling Sarge back by the collar. Sarge sits down, but still dances around a little, excited to see Chunk up close. Chunk definitely does not feel the same way. He’s so heavy in the back of the carrier that it dips backward, almost making the cage door face straight up.
“I can put him in the bathroom, I guess? For now. Shit, I need a litter box and his food…” I want to start crying all over again. I’m overwhelmed with everything that I have to do. I didn’t even think about all the stuff I used in my everyday life, about what I’m missing.
“Hey, don’t worry. I’ll put Sarge in the backyard for now, and then I’ll get you settled. C’mon, buddy.” He snaps his fingers and Sarge follows, trotting a few steps behind Ash. I hear a door open and close, and Ash comes back. “The guest room is upstairs.”
He grabs my bag and Chunk’s carrier, then walks up the huge staircase. The second floor is a little sparser, with the walls painted a masculine dark blue. It looks like he has a study down the hall. The third floor feels more lived-in. Ash’s bedroom is on one side of the floor, and the guest room is on the other. It looks like a nice hotel—fluffy white duvet and pillows, a little bathroom off to the side, and a closet. Best of all, it’s blissfully cool despite the heat outside. He puts my stuff down.
“Towels and washcloths are in the closet, and extra toiletries are in the bathroom,” he says. “What else do you think you’ll need?”
I snort, tears stinging my eyes. “I don’t even know where to start.”
“Let’s start with what you’ll need tonight. You want anything to eat?” He pulls out his phone.
“That would be good. The fire happened right in the middle of dinner.” At least I don’t have to worry if I left the burner on.
“Okay.” He glances down at Chunk’s carrier. He’s meowing sadly and shifting around, my poor baby. “Will he be okay in the room alone? Do you want him with you?”
“He’s going to run under the bed the moment I let him out, so no.” I’m touched that he even considers Chunk’s feelings. Some of my exes never seemed to understand why I’d have a cat since Chunk isn’t the type to be all in my face trying to get affection all the time.
Ash isn’t my fucking boyfriend, the logical half of my brain hisses. Could my brain just calm down for once?
“Okay. Come on, let’s order food and some basic stuff you’ll need right away.” He leads me back downstairs.
I was right—the room I saw when I first came in is more of a formal living room, and the space where he really relaxes is a bit further in. It’s a total man cave, with big leather seats, a massive flat-screen, and all sorts of gadgets. Built-in bookcases line one wall, stuffed with a variety of paperbacks and hardcovers here and there. There are floor-to-ceiling windows and a sliding glass door that face the backyard, where Sarge is running around with a stick in his mouth. In the daytime, it’s probably filled with light. I love it.
“I haven’t gotten groceries in ages. I think I only have coffee, protein powder, and some freezer-burned vegetables,” he says, sitting down on the couch.
I sit next to him, far enough away that I’m not tempted to curl up with him. I want to be comforted, but if I touch him, I know I’ll lose my self-control. And do friends who have amazing sex and then pretend it didn’t happen end up cuddling, even in pretty dire straits like this? Nope.
“Briony,” Ash says, poking me on the leg with a tablet. “Pick out the groceries and cat stuff you need. I’ll have it delivered tonight.”
I stare at the tablet, then at him. He is definitely buying all of this, and I’m not so stupid that I’d refuse any help. I don’t even want to think about my money situation yet, because it’s probably a true disaster. So I pick some things out, like my favorite coffee creamer and oats, and get the essentials like Chunk’s food and litter box, as well as shoes and fresh undies. Nothing too crazy like hand-pressed green juice or hand-sewn underwear or whatever rich people buy for their homes. I hand him the tablet, and he orders it without even looking at the price.
“If you want food recommendations, I highly suggest this Peruvian chicken place or this Thai restaurant,” he continues, scooting closer to me and pulling up the Seamless app. “I haven’t cooked a full meal in my kitchen in about two years, so I order in a bunch.”
I go with the Peruvian chicken. Now that the most pressing things are over, the weight of my situation falls back on my shoulders. I need a distraction.
“Do you need pajamas or something?” Ash asks, suddenly looking uncomfortable. “Or are you okay?”
“I’m okay for now, but thank you.”
“I’ll be right back.” He leaves quickly, leaving me with the big TV and about fifty million remotes on the coffee table in front of me. How many could he possibly need, and for what?
I pick some up and poke at the on buttons. Things come to life, but not the actual TV. Just as I’m about to throw in the towel, Ash comes back. He’s changed out of his button-down shirt and jeans into sweatpants and a Navy t-shirt. His brown hair is a little messy, and he has dark circles under his eyes. I haven’t seen him so normal before. Ash always seems to be put together, even when he’s critical of himself.
“It’s the one with the purple tape on the back,” he explains, grabbing it from the coffee table and punching the on button. “Sorry, I’ve got a lot of shit piled up over here.”
“I’m just impressed that you have this many remotes, honestly. What do you even have over here?” I squint and adjust my glasses. Shit, all of my contact lenses have gone up in flames. They’re so expensive, even with my health insurance. I make a mental note to call my doctor and maybe sort something out with my payments.
“A VR headset and video game consoles, mostly,” he says, walking over to the sliding glass door. Sarge is waiting patiently, his tail thumping faster as Ash approaches. God, Ash’s ass looks way too good in those pants.
“I didn’t know you played video games still.” I think back to high school when he and Ben always pushed me to the sidelines so they could play whatever manly two-player games they were into. Sometimes they let me play with them if it was something like Mario Kart or Super Smash Brothers.
“Yep. Not often, since I don’t have time, but I play enough that I have the systems.” He opens the door, and Sarge zooms in, darting back and forth. He picks up a stray rope toy and skitters across the hardwood, his tail a blur. “Don’t mind him. He has to get the crazy out.”
“Didn’t he do that outside?”
“Yeah. He doesn’t make much sense.” He shakes his head, a tiny smile on his face. He’s such a Brooklyn dog dad. I wouldn’t be surprised if he sends Sarge to a fancy doggy daycare and feeds him the organic food from those fridges in pet stores.
Ash sits down next to me, close enough for me to feel his body heat. His arms are muscular, and his t-shirt hits just the right spot to make his biceps look delicious.
I bite the inside of my cheek. I’m technically homeless and now only own one outfit on my back, a laptop, and an overweight cat—why am I thinking about anything sexual, especially when we both want to stay friends? Maybe real life is like TV, where the two main characters kiss when shit’s getting crazy. It makes no sense, but in the heat of the moment, they think it does.
“You want to play anything while we wait?” he asks once Sarge has settled down. The pup walks over to us with a stuffed owl in his mouth, his eyes bright. Ash’s expression softens as he takes the toy, tossing it across the room. Sarge runs off to fetch it and settles into his bed with the owl. The look in his eyes melts my heart.
“What games do you have?” Video games and a dog seem like they could distract me enough.
“Want to play Super Smash Brothers?” he grins. “For old times’ sake. There’s a new one.”
“I’m still going to kick your ass, so, yeah.” I smile. “Bring it.”
We play until the doorbell rings, swearing at each other and laughing
whenever one of the characters flies off screen. He seems to relax, and so do I. Eventually Sarge joins us on the couch, snuggling right in between us. It’s just what I needed.
Ash hops up and gets the food when the doorbell rings, calling me into his kitchen. The space is absolutely drool-worthy. It’s huge, with all-new appliances and fresh white cabinets. I want to cook everything on that stove. I could bake so many things and not torch them because the oven actually has a gauge that tells you what temperature the thing is on.
“You might want to close your mouth, or a bug might fly in,” he cracks, tapping the underside of my chin.
“This kitchen is amazing.” I sit down at the table, facing everything. “And you say you don’t cook in here?”
“Not because I can’t. I’m just really busy and don’t want to cook anything elaborate when I get home from work.” He shrugs and takes the food out of the packages. “I’m a decent cook.”
I thank him for the food and dig in. It’s beyond delicious. I don’t realize how hungry I am until I’ve plowed through half of my chicken in two minutes.
“Isn’t it good?” Ash says, cutting into his chicken like a civilized human being.
“It’s so good. I was starving.” I take a sip of water. “I tend to stress-eat, too.”
I forgot about everything for a second, but the pain comes rushing back.
“You okay?” Ash asks, putting down his fork.
I could lie to him, but he’ll see right through me. I usually appreciate that about him, but not at this moment. I shake my head. “I don’t want to think about anything having to do with the fire, but I have to, don’t I?”
“You do.” He looks serious again, back to the Ash that most people see. “But better now than later, right? Attack the problem an inch at a time.”