46
Trevor has made up his mind.
“It’s nice to be twenty-one at long last,” declares a lazy Elijah, chomping on a slice of pepperoni pizza as he kicks back on the couch.
I’d already finished mine, curled up in the armchair with a glass of cheap wine hanging from my hand. “I feel shitty that we aren’t going out and partying or anything for your birthday.”
“Dude, just because my real birthday is today—a Thursday, of all boring days—it doesn’t mean I won’t celebrate with a big bash. I’m thinking this weekend, maybe. Friday or Saturday. We can all go to that bar down the street.”
“All?”
Elijah glances at me, squirms a bit, then adjusts his statement. “Just you, me, and Ashlee. And a couple buddies from campus, my media buddies from school. No other interns,” he quickly puts in. “I know you’re … probably not cool to be around them. I get it. I totally get it. But Ashlee’s cool, right? She’s angry for you, y’know. She wants Brady to pay.”
I give him an apologetic smile which quickly dies. I hate that it’s even an issue. I know he probably would’ve rather had all the interns going out for his birthday, but has to hold back because of me. Always because of me.
“Anyway, no interns other than Ashlee. Oh, hey, we can hit up a club around the corner afterwards, maybe, because I clearly will not be wasted enough by then. Ashlee said it’s totally a clean place. Clean except for the bathrooms after 1 AM. And then—”
“I’m going home, Elijah.”
He stops cold and stares at me, confused. “Uh, what?”
I set my glass down on the side table, then sigh. “I’m moving back home. I … I made the decision today while you were at the office. I already packed my things.”
Elijah drops the pizza to his plate, his jaw dropped. “No, dude. No, no. You’re not—”
“I called my parents. They’re expecting me.” I can’t quite look him in the eye just yet. “I don’t want to upset you, especially on your birthday, but you’re making all these plans for the weekend and … well, really, I think you should do what you really want to do. Invite all the interns. Have a blast, dude. I … I just need to be home right now with my family.”
“Come on. You’re running away? After everything? You can’t just go home,” he states pleadingly. “I’m your family, too! We were just getting into our groove here. Salamander’s even warmed up to you. Kinda. Not really. Anyway, the paparazzi aren’t outside our doors anymore. The story that’s out there circulating the net is already taking things in a whole different direction.”
I did notice the changed attitude on the news and on the blogs I browsed today, curled up on my bed with my laptop and all my precious, hurt feelings. The headlines made me smile, admittedly. Benjamin Gage is an ass man. Benjamin Gage is a man of few words, but one amazing set of gym-bred cheeks. Benjamin Gage makes his employees work overtime and makes no apologies for it.
The change is so abrupt, and I know it’s the finesse of Ben’s hand and his team—a team I was just, two days ago, a part of.
Not anymore.
And while I’m happy that his image is taking a new path, what am I supposed to do with my own? There are still people out there on both sides of the fence, scouring the net with their trollish opinions that either condemn me for being an office slut who tried fucking his way to the top, or pitying me for being an innocent “kid” who Benjamin took advantage of.
“I’m sorry, bud,” I tell him, “but I need to do this. I’ve been stuck in here for days. I need to be home, sleep in my own bed, and recalibrate. I need to figure out what I want to do with my life. I even spent part of today researching schools …”
“Schools?? Trev … Dude. You are not transferring to another university for your last fucking year.”
“I may have to. I don’t know. I’m weighing … options.”
“Yeah. Well, an option is also to move to China and become a geisha. Or you could take up an axe and chop trees in the snowy wilderness of Canada, build yourself a cabin. Or crack twenty eggs into a bowl and bathe your face in it.”
I squint at him. “The fuck?”
“I’m saying there are options!” he exclaims, maddened. “I wouldn’t pick any of those, per se, but don’t act like you’re up a tree and need some hot fireman to come save you. Or like you climbed up the curtains and don’t know how to get back down. Or like your food bowl is only halfway empty and you gotta meow incessantly like you’re starving and the end is nigh. Or like—”
“Seriously. Enough with the cat metaphors. You’re about to give Salamander an orgasm.”
“You’re emotional right now,” he tells me, “and you just need to calm down, take a few more days, kick back, breathe, jerk off twenty or thirty times, watch a season or two of Friends … and then we’ll come at this and figure out your next move.”
I sigh, sinking in the armchair even more. “I’m a mess.”
Elijah stares at me for a bit, a perplexed look on his face. Then he goes and brings up you-know-who. “Have you talked to him?”
I stare at my phone, which sits on the side table next to me. He’s called me several times. He’s texted even more. I don’t know if I can bring myself to listen to whatever it is he has to say. I’ve done enough irreversible damage to his career just by existing, haven’t I?
Meanwhile, Salamander has hopped onto the couch and is busy investigating the slice of pizza Elijah left on his plate, sniffing it suspiciously. Elijah seems to be utterly ignoring it, still awaiting my answer.
“No,” I finally reply. “I haven’t.”
“Why not?”
“I can’t.”
Elijah bites his lip, then falls back into the couch. He pulls out his phone and starts tapping away.
“You texting Ashlee?” I prompt him, feeling a bit guilty.
He doesn’t answer, his thumbs feverishly at work.
“Y’know,” I go on, desperate for a change in subject, “I don’t think Ashlee would be opposed to you asking her out. Like, at all. Just saying.”
Elijah finally looks up, his expression lightening. “What?”
“She likes you.” I give him a little smile, then spread my hands like a magician, wiggling my fingers. “Happy birthday!”
Elijah squints suspiciously at me. “Have you been talking to her or something? Where’s this coming from?”
“Since you’re texting her,” I say with a nod at his phone, “I just thought I’d let you know that you can make a move and … I’m pretty sure she’d make one of her own.”
Elijah smirks, then lowers his phone to his lap, thinking about it. A tiny smile breaks out over his face. “I noticed an odd change in her this past week or so. I just thought it was because I fixed some little thing on her spreadsheet last Tuesday.”
“Your lady awaits.” I give him a wink.
“So does your lad,” he returns.
I press my lips together, then push myself out of my armchair to refresh our respective choices of alcohol. We’re just drinking cheap wine and beer, but it’s really more symbolic anyway, since it’s Elijah’s first day as a legal alcohol consumer. Before long, we’re both watching some random show on TV, for the first time not staying focused on the repetitive, nauseating news.
When I finally decide to go to bed, Elijah speaks up. “At least wait until I’m home from work before you go, will you?”
I stop at my bedroom door, turning to hear him out.
“Just give it the day,” he pleads, “and if you still want to go home … then I’ll drive you. It’s the least I can do.”
Hugging the doorframe, I give Elijah a tired, surrendering nod before ducking into my room and shrugging under the bed sheets. I stare at my phone in the dark, rereading the texts Ben sent me over the past couple days. Then I open an ambiance app, set it to the gentle crashing of ocean waves, and attempt to fall asleep.
No, I’m totally not dreaming of a certain beach in Mexico.
With a certain someone’s arms wrapped tightly around me.
Damn it.