40. Drew

He's not listening. He's not leaving. He's not doing anything to make my headache go away or make my heart stop crumbling to ash. If there were a way to push everything I was feeling into his head and heart for two seconds—just so he could know what his being here arguing in circles is doing to me, I would—because I need it to stop. Just the sight of him hurts. Is it too much to ask of him to read the fucking room? I am not okay.

Yeah, sure, he called me "doorman"—I am the doorman—so—fair. It wasn't a big deal. It was a scuff up that led into all these deep-seated issues that shouldn't even be close to coming up a few weeks into a relationship that started as purely physical.

I don't know what happened to me. I'm not sure where along the way I lost my head and fell for this spoiled snob—who also happens to be a man. But ever since I watched the protective way he took care of Elodie last night, I've been in a downward spiral, and I realize, too, I saw this coming.

That's why I told him I was leaving town in the first place. Whatever spell he put on me that convinced me to stay and give this whole thing between us a try, well—I guess the magic has worn off. Unfortunately, what I feel for him hasn't.

It's only deepened and made the reality of not being able to be with him harder and harder to imagine.

"Where will you go?" he whispers. "Home?"

I nod. We've been down this road before.

"Can I still see you?"

"No," I say.

"Rent is due in three days."

I nod again.

"What about your job? Don't you have to give notice or something?"

"Why?" I ask. "It's not like I'm coming back."

"Drew, this is hurting me," he whispers.

I want to tell him to join the club. But I don't want to commiserate. I think we all know Olivier Arnaud will be just fine without me. It's me I need to take care of right now. And I can't afford to do it in this city. "It's not your fault. Pretty sure it would've ended up like this no matter what."

"That's not fair, Drew."

"We're too different. We're not even gay."

Olivier whips off his coat, a sure sign that he's not going anywhere, and I don't know whether to be pissed off or relieved. Underneath, he's wearing a slim fitting black Henley over skinny gray jeans. Every line of his body is perfectly accentuated, and the slight flush of his pale skin is so beautiful to me, I want to fall to my knees and weep. But I do not want him to see me cry. There's no need for him to become intimately familiar with my damage.

"Do you have any idea what it feels like to hear that from you after what happened between us last night? Like you were going through a phase, and now you're over it."

"Do you know what it's like to want someone you can't ever really be with?"

"Yes!" he shouts. "Why the fuck do you think I'm here? I am telling you I want you. I choose you."

"You just said you can't trust me," I don't hesitate to remind him.

"You said the same fucking thing to me! I said I have every reason not to trust you, but I never said I didn't want to be with you. If you leave now, you're cutting me off at the knees. You're not even giving me a chance to make things right. If the ultimate goal is to be together, then it's up to both of us to figure that out. Together. I'm willing to do that, but you're telling me in three days or less you'll be gone unless I take a stand that has consequences you can't even imagine."

The suppressed urge to let myself be in love with him releases itself in a strong, body-wracking shudder. My stomach rolls, and the water I just drank threatens to come right back up.

My feelings for him are surreal. Loving Olivier hurts in a way I don't think loving someone is supposed to, but I don't know how to make it feel better. I don't even know if I should try. Maybe it needs to stay painful. Maybe I need this ache in my chest to feed from—one more bitter resentment to power me through doing what I know I have to do.

"Don't," I whisper. "I'm not worth it, Olivier."

"I don't think you're in any position to make that decision for me—or yourself for that matter."

"Why won't you just go?" I'm a heartbeat away from begging.

He walks into the kitchen, putting himself in front of me. "I didn't come all the way down here fighting traffic and enormous rats to give up on us."

"What us?"

"Stop. Saying shit like that. I get that you're not feeling your best, but now you're pissing me off."

With him close enough to touch, my hand strikes out—fumbling for any part of him I can grab, and it lands on his belt, my knuckles brushing his abs. I shudder again, and my eyes burn. "I don't think I can't do this," I whisper.

He's closer now because I'm pulling him closer. His arms wrap around me, and I guess he's got his reasons. I think he's trying to hold me together, but I end up falling apart.

"You're killing me," he whispers into my neck, just below my ear.

"I'm not okay," I say, stating the abundantly obvious. Again.

"You need to let me help you. It's not just about you anymore, Drew. It doesn't have to be, and it isn't."

"I don't want your money."

"Well, you said it yourself—it's not my money, is it?"

I don't know why, but that does make it better. That some champagne importer would be footing the bill to pay the rent for a run-down apartment in the Village.

It doesn't mean I understand how I let this happen to me. It doesn't change that Olivier is probably a symptom and not a solution. I doubt everything about us. I wonder if I had been happier when I met him whether any of this would have happened. I wonder if he's a rabbit hole I fell down. If he's been one more way for me to blow up my life—pushing me toward the inevitable conclusion that I don't belong here.

Nothing about us should work. We shouldn't have happened in the first place. But that doesn't stop me from leaning into his touch as he strokes my face.

"Do you actually love me?" he asks.

I nod. It feels like a complete surrender. It feels like giving up.

"Then don't leave me."

Tears spill. I gulp back the sound that wants to come with them, but it still rips my chest apart. I'm completely at his mercy, and while I might hate the concept of that, the way it feels to let him hold me together is hard to resist. I've never let anyone take care of me before.

It's been impossible for me to admit I need help at all. And maybe someone like Jericho would have jumped at the chance if I'd told her I needed it, and maybe that would have made a difference for us, but here and now, I know she couldn't have given me what Olivier is offering. And I don't even mean the money.

My feelings for him make no sense, but maybe I need to stop trying to make sense of them. It's only making me more depressed. In my head it's all wrong. But in his arms, everything is right.

"Don't marry her," I whisper, pleading. The fact that I'm crying is more than obvious in my voice.

"Stop worrying about that," he says, drawing his face back to look at me. "Marrying Elodie is a strategy. I understand the game now, and I'll play it to get you to stay. But you have to give me time to figure out the right moves. Please tell me you understand that, Drew."

Whatever he's saying is new. So is the determination in his eyes. I want to believe him enough to give him the benefit of the doubt. It's maybe the weakest moment of my life, so any hope I can cling to, I'll reach for. "You're catching me at a really low point," I say.

He smirks. "Believe me, I know. That's why I'm taking full advantage."

"That's not cool."

"Don't get me started on which one of us is more uncool right now," he says. "So will you stay or what?"

"I can't answer that today."

"When can you answer it?"

"I don't know."

"Drew…please." He runs his hand back through my hair, getting a good grip on the roots. "Don't fuck with me anymore. I need you with me. And you need me, too. You're so deep in your head when all you need to know is we should be together. That's the only thing that makes the last few weeks make sense. This was supposed to happen, you and me. Even if you don't want to have sex with me anymore because you're over it, we're more than that now. I know we are."

"Who said I didn't want to have sex with you?"

"I said ‘if.'"

Out of nowhere, my dick rises to the challenge. Or maybe it's because his body is still pressed to mine, and there's no one on this planet I've ever found sexier. "You're saying we could just be friends? Why? Because we have so much in common?"

"I'd like for you to acknowledge for once that we're not all that different," he says.

"How's that?'"

"Well…we're both filthy. We both aren't living the lives we pictured for ourselves. We're both vain as fuck and we both have major anger issues. And we both know what it's like to feel unwanted."

"So we're meant to be, huh?"

"Maybe…"

"You won't change your mind about me?" I ask him.

"I really don't think I will," he says.

"How do you know?"

"Look, here's what I can promise you. If I change my mind about you, you'll see it coming from a mile away. If I stop chasing you across the city to beg you to be with me—that'll be your first clue."

"I get it. No one can make promises like that."

"I mean, I can't promise it today, because you really upset me by leaving last night, but I might be able to sooner than later if you'll give me a chance."

How do I say no to that? Maybe I can't put into words what the hell we see in each other as well as he claims to be able to, but I'm not ready to let go either. He might feel a little too much like a lifeline, but like he said, maybe it's time I got out of my head. It's a dark and muddy place, and the last place I want to be.

This whole exchange makes me think I was too hard on Silas. It's not like what I'm considering doing isn't exactly like what he did. Pinning my hopes and my well-being on a man I've known for such a small blip of time. Letting someone "keep" me. Is Silas in love, too?

"Okay, shoot your shot, rich boy," I tell him. I don't want to fight what I feel for him anymore. I'd rather just lie down and let it have its way with me.

"Are you expecting a grand gesture here?"

"You got one ready?" I ask, my thumbs still mindlessly running up and down his abs.

"No. But I have a thought."

"What's that?"

He grins, a wicked glint in his eyes. "What's your shower like here?" he asks.

"Not like what you're used to. Why?"

"Because you smell like whiskey sweat and BO, and I'm not saying I mind, but I think we'll both feel better if we start today off fresh."

"It's a pretty depressing shower," I say. Not because I'm ashamed of it, but because it doesn't exactly get me in the mood.

"No place I go is ever depressing," he says.

I give him a long look, falling for his charm and his ego all over again. "We'll see about that."