The Space Between (28 page)

“Shannon, you have to swear you’re not going to say anything to anyone. Not Sam, not Matt, not Lauren. No one. And you definitely can’t say anything to Andy.”

“Does she know?” Shannon asked incredulously. “Is this like…unrequited love? I didn’t think you even talked to her.”

I chalked that up to successful avoidance tactics. If Shan didn’t think we talked, she certainly wasn’t thinking we were groping each other in any empty corner we found. The bathroom. My office. Garages. Stairwells.

“She sort of lives with me,” I said, my hand grasping the nape of my neck. “She stays with me four or five nights each week, but no, I haven’t told her that I’m in love with her yet. I didn’t really process that until just now.”

“What! What?” Shannon was on her feet again, and her bony fist slammed into my chest. “You’re in love and living with someone? When the fuck did that happen? That explains…you know what, that explains so much of your dickish behavior.”

Sinking into a wingback chair to avoid looking at Shannon’s overly interested assistants, I scratched my head. “March. And sit down and be quiet before the runt finds a reason to run in here.”

“Are you fucking kidding me, Patrick? You’ve been living with a woman and you didn’t bother to tell me until now?”

“Come on, Shannon. Think about it from her perspective. I’m just trying to protect her.”

Shannon sighed and sat across from me in a matching chair. “When were you planning on telling me? Or were you?”

“Of course! Do you have any clue how hard this has been for me? How much I’ve wanted to tell you? How much I need you to help me figure my shit out? I’m losing my fucking mind right now. I didn’t ask for this, and I’m in love with her, and I don’t know what to do with that.”

“Are we talking ‘I really like you and the sex is awesome,’ or ‘I really like you and want to get a Maltepoo that we raise together and put on a joint Christmas card’ or ‘I really like you, and want you and only you forever, and here’s a sparkly ring’ or something else?”

I didn’t want to stop at a shared address. I needed Andy, and I was planning on needing her for a long time but of all the things I expected for myself, marriage was a few notches above learning Portuguese, and I knew Andy was in a similar boat. In those dark, quiet moments when we held each other, skin to skin, and all pretenses came down, we bared it all. We were the poster children for fucked up childhoods.

Andy’s parents never married. Her father’s traditional Persian parents didn’t approve of her casually Jewish, wandering artist mother, and they refused to acknowledge Andy as their grandchild, even when her father was murdered. They barred Andy and her mother from the funeral, and to this day, Andy didn’t know where her father was buried.

Her mother married Bob, an accountant, shortly after Andy left for college, and they had two girls who Andy referred to as the Bobbsey Twins. Andy visited on holidays, but the Bobbsey Family didn’t include her, not genuinely, and staying away was safer than being an outsider.

I watched my parents adore each other for the first ten years of my life, and then I watched my father destroy every shred of that happiness in the cruelest, most vengeful ways for the subsequent twenty-two years.

I glanced at Shannon’s impatient stare, her crossed legs bouncing furiously beneath the table.

Fuck the history. Fuck the dysfunction.

It was all bullshit. None of it held any power over us, and if we survived months of secrecy while in the trenches with my siblings, we could survive anything.

I stared into Shannon’s green eyes, and knew my answer. “Forever.”

“Holy shit,” Shannon gasped.

ANDY

S
crolling through pages
of cut crystal glasses, candlesticks holders, and cheese boards left me disheartened. It was possible I might not find a worthy gift for Lauren. They didn’t have a wedding registry to guide my search, and she spent our entire pedicure last week detailing the excessive and unneeded cookware and towels and vases descending upon their loft—of course, she never mentioned what she did want.

Beyond the occasional club hopping with Jess and Marley, Lauren was my only real girlfriend in Boston, and over the past few months, she became an irreplaceable part of my life. We shared more than a few bottles of wine discussing our growly, bitey boys, and always met for hot yoga and lunch at the farmers’ market on Saturdays. The hunt for wedding goods—a hair band, cute guest book alternatives, lacy lingerie—kept us busy.

I even started a secret Pinterest board to archive my wedding ideas. I had no idea when I turned into one of those girls who had recurring thoughts about weddings.

Not that I was planning a wedding. Or thinking about getting engaged. Or even sure where things stood with me and Patrick, or what I wanted for us as my apprenticeship popped the landing gear on its final descent.

For now, it was simply a place where I noted lovely things that caught my eye, and absolutely nothing more.

The idea that women could spend time together without devolving into insecure squabbling was foreign to me, and Lauren taught me that strong female friendships were critical to my mental health—especially considering I was semi-living in full-blown sin with my secret boyfriend who was also my boss.

She taught me the power of a few carefully selected pieces of lingerie, too.

Shannon bowed out after one foray into hot yoga, arguing that no amount of calories burned was worth covering her body in an angry, raspberry-red flush for hours. Such was life for a redhead. She maintained her presence for our regular pedicure dates though my footing with her always felt a little off. Don’t get me wrong—she was open and hilarious and wonderfully uninhibited, but her allegiance was very clearly with Patrick, and I’d be old and gray before that changed.

Patrick spent the morning shut up in Shannon’s office, and the better part of the afternoon back and forth between our office and there, and his continuous stream of under-the-breath babble had me concerned. He was on edge, and being weird about it. I wanted to know where my Patrick went.

And that’s exactly what he was: mine. At least for the time being. The future was vague…at best.

Plan A was—and always had been—sticking around Walsh Associates. We ambled around discussions of an implied future—whether it be a shared interest in an Oktoberfest tasting menu event or taking on projects that wouldn’t break ground until August—as if there was no question I was staying. Patrick sweetened that deal, but he also added a layer of complexity that made banking on Plan A tenuous.

Things were good—I had a freaking Pinterest board for our hypothetical wedding, after all—but the minute they stopped being good, I stood to lose everything.

Instead of tackling the realities of Plan A, I resorted to a well-developed Plan B that involved sending out dozens of résumés and portfolio samples to sustainable preservation firms throughout New England and the mid-Atlantic. With the exception of a measly handful, they were dreadful operations that misinterpreted the most basic principles of sustainability, preservation, or both. I was more interested in chewing glass than relocating, though it was possible that Plan A’s cozy perfection dimmed the appeal of everything else.

It all felt deceptive given the walls between Patrick and me were long demolished and the rubble swept aside. Hiding behind late yoga classes as my prime motivation for staying at my apartment rarely sounded believable, but it was the best cover available for phone and Skype interviews—that, and I was still paying rent on an apartment I graced with my presence once or twice per week.

It was misleading, and I hated myself a little more after each interview, but Plan B was non-negotiable. Protecting myself was always the first priority.

I watched Patrick’s index finger stumble over book spines until finding the volume he wanted, the overhead lights illuminating his auburn hair against the darkness outside.

My spy informant Tom—sexuality still unconfirmed—reported that Patrick and Shannon spent an hour yelling at each other post-partners’ meeting but failed to provide intel on the topic of said yelling. Patrick didn’t mention anything over lunch, and it was evident he was still slogging through it while he absently studied a technical manual on rainwater collection systems.

“Fucking hell,” I groaned, scrolling through another page of prosaic home goods. It was easier to bulldoze a historical landmark than find the right bridal shower gift.

“What?” Patrick snapped back from the bookshelf.

He looked startled—maybe a little bewildered—and I pushed away from the conference table to approach him. It was after eight, and knowing we were alone in the office, I laid my hands on his chest. Feeling his thundering heart under my palm, I looked up with alarmed eyes. Residential rainwater collection wasn’t that exhilarating.

“Hey,” I murmured, my hand snaking up to wrap around the back of his neck. “You’re a little twitchy.”

“Yeah,” he breathed, his forehead pressing against mine. “I feel a little twitchy.”

I stared into Patrick’s eyes, waiting for an explanation while my fingers teased apart the bunched muscles in his neck and shoulders. I was not holding the same man who warned me to stretch in advance of my evening with him.

“Are you coming home with me?” he rasped, his voice heavy with stress and exhaustion. He sighed, his eyes drifting shut. “Do you know how much I hate asking that?”

I blinked, studying the jumping pulse along his throat. “No, Patrick, I don’t know, but I don’t think that’s why you’re twitchy.”

“Andy,” he sighed. “There are at least five other things we need to talk about right now, tonight, but goddamn it, my head is going to explode if you’re not with me tonight. So please, tell me you’re staying.”

I vacillated between wanting Patrick’s confessions—the ones his eyes and hands and body openly communicated—and knowing I required a career path independent of hot sex and a hotter man.

“Your head is going to explode,” I started, backing him toward his desk chair, “because your heart is beating as if you just ran ten miles uphill, and you haven’t taken a cleansing breath since you walked in.”

He sat, and I climbed on his lap, my fingers continuing their work on his shoulders while his hands gripped my waist.

“You didn’t answer my question,” he murmured into my hair. “Don’t torture me right now. Today has been…overwhelming, and I need to know. Are you coming home with me?”

Patrick grunted as my knuckle dug into his shoulder. “Of course.”

Lifting his head from my shoulder, Patrick smiled. “Good,” he growled, and his lips fused to mine, his hands tangling in my hair and diving beneath my shirt. “I want to wake up next to you every single day.”

I’d like to say it took more than one kiss, one touch, one look, but that’s how it was with Patrick. The instant his lips brushed over mine, I was lost to him and the magnetic pull drawing us together. Every touch magnified that pull, and as his mouth pressed against mine, I shifted to roll my center over the erection straining behind his fly.

Patrick’s fingers tugged at the ribbon knotting my poplin wrap shirt at the side, loosening the ties until it hung from my elbows and his chin scratched over my chest. His arm snaked under my thighs, and with one deft movement, I was staring at the hand-carved plaster medallion surrounding the chandelier. I didn’t notice the edge of Patrick’s laptop digging into my ribs, or the mechanical pencils snagged in my hair. My legs anchored Patrick to me, towing him closer until I felt him pushing against me.

“This isn’t how I expected the night to go, but I’m not complaining,” Patrick murmured against my lips.

“If you were complaining,” I replied, my hands fisting in his shirt to free it from beneath his belt. His warmth, his weight, it was breathtaking, and I didn’t want to let go. “There’d be something wrong.”

“And this is not wrong,” he laughed, his teeth capturing my bottom lip as his fingers fought with the button closure of my pants. He slipped beneath my waistband, his fingers passing back and forth over the spot of arousal dotting my panties, my thighs quivering with each stroke.

“Yo, Patrick, here’s the updated budget for the new offices that you asked for, with the floating wall between Andy’s office and…oh shit.”

Riley’s upside-down frame froze in the doorway. His eyes bulged as he drank us in, our tangled arms locked around each other for a slow motion second.

My first thought: could he see my boobs?

Second thought: was my underwear still on?

Third thought: why the hell was Riley in the office after five?

“Fuck,” Patrick hissed. He jerked me off the desk and shoved me behind his back, wrapping a hand over my hip.

A quick survey of the state of my clothes answered my first two questions—boobs: out; underwear: riding below my hips.

“Yeah, so I’m gonna go,” Riley said, his voice trailing off as he backed away from the door.

And by ‘go’ Riley meant he was probably calling his siblings to spread the news. His slow wit was the only winner in this situation—if he were faster on his feet, he would have snapped some photos to illustrate the group text that I expected to blow up the Walsh family phones any minute.

The snarky Facebook post practically wrote itself: Who has two thumbs and just walked in on his brother rounding third base with the apprentice? This guy.

Patrick bent to meet my eyes, his hand covering the fingers that attempted to fasten the ties of my shirt. “I’m going to talk to him. Fix this. Are you okay?” I murmured and Patrick squeezed my fingers. “I need you to give me more than ‘hm,’ Andy. Are you okay?”

Somewhere between resenting that Riley interrupted some scrumptious petting and recognizing that our cover was irrevocably blown, I met Patrick’s eyes with a shaky exhale and stiff nod. My turn to be twitchy. “Yeah.”

“Here.” He slipped his keys into my pocket and dropped a gentle kiss on my mouth. “Go home. Eat. Have a drink. I’ll be there soon.”

He was gone, and I was on autopilot. I stuffed most of my things in my bag, but in the back of my mind, I remembered contracts, designs, and notes I intended to review tonight littered my drafting table, plus an open jar of pecans and dried papaya.