The swift and violent death I was talking about earlier? I need it now. “I am so, so sorry about that. I really didn’t—”
“Watch out.”
I look around to see what he means right as some guy almost runs me over with his skateboard. It’s a close call: between the precious croissant I clearly feel ambivalent about and my bag, I nearly lose my balance, and that’s where Corporate Thor intervenes. He moves way quicker than anyone his size should be able to and slides between me and Skateboard Guy, straightening me with a hand around my biceps.
I glance up at him, nearly out of breath. He’s as towering as a Greenlandic mountain range, pressing me a bit against the window of the corner barbershop, and I think he’s saved my life. My professional life, of course. And now also my life life.
Oh shit. “What even is this morning?” I mutter to no one.
“You okay?”
“Yeah. I mean, I’m clearly on a downward spiral of struggle and mortification, but . . .”
He keeps his eyes and the angles of his handsome, aggressive, unusual face on me. His expression is grave, unsmiling, but for a fraction of a second a thought runs through my head.
He’s amused. He finds me funny.
It’s a fleeting impression. It lingers a brief moment and dissolves the instant he lets go of my biceps. But I don’t think I imagined it. I’m almost sure I didn’t, because of what happens next.
“I think,” he says, his voice more delicious than Faye’s croissants could ever hope to be, “that I’d like to hear that long, embarrassing story of yours.”
Three
Present
I’m almost positive that the elevator is shrinking.
Nothing dramatic, really. But I estimate that every minute we spend in here, the car gets a couple of millimeters smaller. I’ve tucked myself into a corner, arms around my legs and forehead on my knees. Last I glanced up, Erik was in the opposite corner, looking fairly relaxed. Mile-long legs stretched out in front of him, sequoia-wide biceps crossed on his chest.
And, of course, the walls are looming over me. Pushing us closer and closer together. I shiver and curse power outages. The walls. Erik.
Myself.
“Are you cold?” he asks.
I lift my head. I’m wearing my usual work outfit of chinos and a nice blouse. Solid, neutral colors. Professional enough to be taken seriously; modest enough to convince the dudes I meet through work that my presence at any given meeting is to assess the efficacy of the biofiltration system design and not to provide them with “something cute to look at.” Being a woman in engineering can be tons and tons of fun.
Erik, though . . . Erik looks a bit different. He’s wearing jeans and a dark, soft sweater that stretches around his chest, and it seems unusual, given that in the past I’ve only ever seen him in a suit. Then again, I’ve only ever seen Erik twice before, technically on the same day.
（That is, if one doesn’t count the times in the past month that I glimpsed him around the building and promptly turned away to change direction. Which I very much don’t.）
Still, I cannot help but wonder if the reason he looks uncharacteristically informal is that earlier today he was working on-site. Supervising. Consulting. Maybe he was called in to give recommendations on the Milton project, and . . . Yeah. Not going there.
I straighten and square my shoulders. My resentment for Erik Nowak, the feeling I’ve been cradling in my pocket like a little mouse for the past three weeks, the one I’ve been feeding bile and scraps, stirs awake. And honestly, it feels nice. Familiar. It reminds me that Erik doesn’t really care whether I’m cold. I bet he has ulterior motives for asking. Maybe he wants to sell my organs. Or he’s planning on establishing a pee corner on my rotting corpse.
“I’m fine,” I say.
“You sure? I can give you my sweater.”
I briefly picture him taking it off and handing it to me. I’ve seen him do it before in flesh and blood, which means that I wouldn’t even need to get creative. I remember well the way he grabbed the collar and pulled it up over his head, his muscles flexing and contracting, the sudden expanse of pale flesh . . .
He’d hold the sweater out to me, and it’d still be warm. Maybe even smell like his skin, or like his sheets.
Wow. Wow, wow, wow. What was that? I’ve been in this elevator for approximately nine minutes and my brain is already developing Swiss cheese–style holes. Holding on strong, Sadie Grantham. Congrats on your emotional fortitude. Way to be horny for a truly horrible person.
“No need,” I say, shaking my head a little too eagerly. “Are you sure we should just wait?” I ask. “Just—do nothing and wait?”
He nods calmly, clearly broadcasting that it’s not hard for him to be a good sport about this situation, that the idea of being stuck with me doesn’t bother him one bit, and that, unlike some of us, he’s not tempted to bury his face in his hands and cry. Show-off.
“What if we scream?” I ask.
“Scream?”
“Yes—what if we scream? This is a giant building. Someone is bound to hear us, right?”
“At eleven on a Friday night?” His reply is much kinder than my idiotic question deserves. “While the elevator is stuck between floors? This elevator?”
I look away because he’s right. Frustratingly right. This cursed elevator we’re on is in the deepest part of the building, next to a hallway no one would walk by at night. A true tragedy, overshadowed only by the fact that it also has the narrowest car I’ve ever seen. Guests and clients rarely use it, which is why it has the advantage of being quicker—and the disadvantage of being small.
As in: minuscule. I knew it was tiny, but there’s nothing like realizing that this might be the place where I die to register how tiny. If I stretch my arms, I’ll bump into Erik. If I stretch my legs, I’ll bump into Erik. If I thrash around on the floor like I so desperately want to, I’ll also bump into Erik. What a quandary.
“Are you okay?” he asks softly. His eyes look soft, too. A ball of something I cannot quite define knots in my chest.
“Yeah.”
“Here.” He rummages in his bag for a moment. Then holds something out to me. “Have some water.”
I don’t know why I accept his 2019 NYC Amateur Soccer League water bottle. I don’t know why my fingers brush against his for the briefest of moments. And I don’t know why, as I drink small sips, he studies me with something that resembles concern.
He’s not really concerned, because Erik Nowak is just not that kind of guy. The kind of guy he actually is? A backstabber. A liar. A sentient human McMansion who values only his own professional success. An F.C. Copenhagen supporter—which, it pleases me to say, is a mediocre soccer team at best. Yes, I said what I said.
“Better?”
“I told you, I’m fine. I’m totally great.”
“You look pale.” His head tilts, as if to observe me better. “Are you claustrophobic?”
“No. I don’t think so.” Am I, though? It would explain a lot. The walls closing in. This greasy, barfy feeling in my stomach. The way I’d love to claw at this place because it’s so small and Erik takes up so much room inside my head and I can smell his soap and I just want to forget everything about him and maybe I thought I had but now he’s here and it’s all coming back and I—