He nods seriously. On things like this, we get each other one hundred percent.
On my way out, I pause to say, “I’ll let you know about plans for tomorrow. We might need to celebrate later.”
“Don’t worry about it. Go see your woman.” He squeezes my shoulder, and I nod at him once before leaving.
As I’m getting onto my Ducati, however, the significance of what he said hits me. Your woman.
Anna isn’t mine.
But I have to admit I like the sound of that. A lot.
WHEN I GET TO ANNA’S BUILDING, I MANAGE TO CATCH THE door while someone is leaving and run up the three sets of stairs to her apartment. I don’t stop to catch my breath before knocking.
She opens the door, and things move uncomfortably inside me. Her eyes are puffy and red. Her face is blotchy. She looks horrible. But at least she’s in one piece.
“You got here so fast,” she says, looking down the hall behind me with wide eyes like she’s searching for a teleportation device or something. “You didn’t need—”
I take her in my arms and hold her tight, whispering, “I didneed to.”
She’s stiff at first, but slowly relaxes against me with a long, shuddering sigh. When she presses her forehead to my neck, everything that shifted out of place upon seeing her settles back into place.
“What’s wrong? What happened?” I ask.
She’s unresponsive for a long moment before she shakes her head, saying nothing, and my stomach sinks with disappointment. It’s obvious there’s something. It’s also obvious she doesn’t trust me enough to tell me, and that sucks. I tell myself it’s okay. The thing between us isn’t a thing. But my disappointment remains. I want to be someone she can tell things to. With other people, I’m that person—or I used to be, back before I became fragile in their eyes.
After standing with her by the front door for several minutes, I guide her to the couch and sit with her. I don’t know what to do, so I just hold her, sweeping my hand up and down her back.
I’m pretty sure she’s fallen asleep when she murmurs, “I don’t have energy for our third try tonight.”
“I didn’t come here to have sex with you,” I say firmly. What kind of dick does she think I am?
She turns her face to the side and looks up at me. “So today doesn’t count?”
“No.”
A faint smile touches her mouth. “Thank you. For coming.”
“I was worried.”
Sighing, she shuts her eyes. “I had therapy today.”
“Did it help?” I ask, hoping she’ll elaborate.
Her chest expands with a long, deep breath and falls. “I don’t know. It’s complicated and …” Her forehead wrinkles slightly. “It’s hard to talk when I’m so tired. Just saying the words …” She lifts her hand, and it falls limply to her lap, making the point for her.
“You can tell me later. If you want.”
She nods, and I hold her tighter as the sky turns to night, shrouding her living room in darkness. It’s not exactly comfortable. I’m still wearing my motorcycle jacket, and while the synthetic fabric is great if you wipe out during a ride, it’s definitely not lounging attire. But I like the way she’s resting on me. It satisfies needs that I wasn’t aware I had. I soak up the moment until my muscles go stiff from inaction. When I can’t take it anymore and stretch out one of my arms, her head slides a fraction down my chest.
She’s fallen asleep.
I’d bet my Ducati that she doesn’t fall asleep with just anybody. But she did with me. That means something.
FOURTEEN
Anna
THE FIRST THING I SEE WHEN I OPEN MY EYES IS QUAN—HE’S on his side, facing me, deep asleep. The sight is so unexpected that my heart starts racing, and I look around in a panic, trying to make sense of things. This is my bed, my room. I didn’t draw the blinds shut last night, and everything is tinted gray and hushed, the way it is right before dawn. I don’t usually wake up at this time. Only when I’m traveling or accidentally go to sleep super early.
Memories of yesterday flit though my mind. My regular （failed） practice, seeing Jennifer, the news, the book, crying in public, Quan worrying about me …
I vaguely remember him moving me from the couch last night and then—I slap a hand over my mouth. I asked him to stay. That’s why he’s here, sleeping on top of my covers and looking cold. I sit up and carefully fold my blankets over him.
For a while, I sit there, scared to move for fear of waking him. What do women do when they have strangers in their beds? As soon as the thought crosses my mind, I frown. Stranger doesn’t feel like quite the right word for Quan. But he’s not my one-night stand—not yet. He’s definitely not my lover. Acquaintance seems too distant. He’s talked to me a reasonable amount, listened to me, laughed with me, seen me at my worst, held me while I cried. And he stayed because I asked him to.