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There's a lot going on in my head. The main thing spinning round and round is the screaming thought that I just told Storie everything, I just laid my heart down on the ground for her to stomp on, but she's holding my hand. She's sitting so close to me that I swear I can hear her heartbeat, and her fingers are wrapped around mine and she smells so good, and she doesn't want me to go.
I don't want to go. Being stuck in the elevator isn't ideal, but I'm stuck with her, and I'd stay here forever if it meant I never had to go another day without seeing her face. Four years is too long. Four weeks is too long. Four days is too long. I can still feel the ache of those first moments after she walked away, when I wished that I could just slither to the floor and never get up.
She was probably wishing the exact same thing. I don't blame her.
"I'm sorry for dumping all of that on you," I say when neither of us have spoken for a few minutes. She doesn't reply. She's breathing fast. I squeeze her hand and she squeezes it back, like we're passing a code. "That wasn't fair of me."
"It's ok," she says after a moment. "Want to know something funny?"
"Always," I say, though I'm pretty sure whatever she's about to say isn't going to be as funny as it will be devastating. Something about the tone of her voice doesn't match the word.
"Even after everything that happened with us," she says, and I know my instinct was right, because nothing was funny about that, "when Gray and Navya got engaged, all I could think was that could have been Liam and me. I mean, of course, my main thought was that I was thrilled for them, but it just drove it home in a way."
She pauses. Her hand doesn't loosen on mine. I don't want her to ever let go.
"You and I got together before they did, and I thought we were the real deal, so when they told me that they were getting married, it made me think of you. If we hadn't broken up, I thought that maybe that would have been us," she says. I can't tell her how many times I've wondered the same thing.
A few people I knew in college have got married or engaged or had kids since we graduated, and each time I read one of those nauseating life updates, I can't shake the vision of Storie and me. We weren't together long, but those months felt more like years, in the best way. I felt like I had known her forever by the time we broke up, which only made it more devastating.
"There were times that I thought about reaching out to you," she says, and it's only then that I realize I still haven't responded. I don't know what to say when everything she's saying is only fueling my hopes, and I know that they'll be dashed eventually.
"Why didn't you?"
She sighs. "I didn't know what to say," she says. "I was embarrassed, I guess. I didn't know how I could just randomly send you a message, like, two years after we broke up, just to see how things were going." She turns to face me, and I can only just make out the glint of her eyes in the darkness.
"Anyway," she says, "none of that is the funny thing. It's not even funny."
"What is it?"
She takes a deep breath and slowly lets it out. The sound is torture. Every sound she makes is torture, but I'd subject myself to it every minute of the day if I had to. I'd rather hear that heavy sigh than nothing at all.
"Despite how it ended with us," she says, treading so carefully around her words that it makes it even more obvious what she's trying not to say, and guilt stabs my heart like a scorching dagger, "you actually gave me the boost I needed."
"What d'you mean?"
"Because no matter what happened, you did actually love me," she says. I still do. I never stopped. "Even if it started on bad foundations, that feeling was there. You loved me, and it gave me the confidence boost I needed." She lets go of my hand and I feel empty all of a sudden, until I realize that she's braiding her hair. I want to be the one doing that. I used to love braiding her hair. She loved it too.
"I grew up thinking I had to be thin for a guy to even look my way and see someone with any kind of dating potential," she continues, her elbow knocking me every now and then as her deft fingers work swiftly to plait her hair. "But you loved me even as a fat girl." She lets out a quiet laugh. "I'm still fat, and I guess if you're telling the truth, you still love me."
"I am. I do," I say. I hate that pathetic desperation in my voice but I am pathetic and I am desperate, and it's so much easier to say all this in the cover of darkness, when I can hide from the response to what I say.
"It took me a long time to realize that was possible," she murmurs. "I really, truly thought I would never fall in love unless I was, like, a size eight. I hate how much time I wasted on those thoughts."
"So do I. That's bullshit, Storie."
"I know." She finishes her braid, securing it with a hair tie that she always keeps around her wrist, and she rests her head against my shoulder. "It also took me a long time to realize that it was ok to let you be the reason I felt better about myself. You know me. I've spent an awful lot of time overthinking."
"Classic Storie."
She chuckles. "Yup. I doubt that's going to change any time soon. I don't think I'd know what to do with myself if I wasn't second-guessing every single move I make and every word I say and everything other people say and do. My brain would get antsy if I let it settle for too long."
"You deserve to let it settle, though. You deserve to take a break from that," I say.
"I don't think I'd feel like myself anymore," she says. "My second year of college, I ended up actually taking something for my anxiety. I was so done with the constant storm in my head and I talked to my mom and a doctor and I ended up on meds, but I hated it."
"Why?"
"I wasn't me." She shrugs. I feel her shoulder rise against mine. "It mellowed me out, but I just felt like I wasn't in control anymore. I felt like the drugs had taken away my anxiety and they'd taken away part of me. I've spent twenty-three years with that extra voice in my head, and I felt like I was treading water in the deep end when it went away."
"So you came off them?"
"Yeah," she says. "Things got a bit worse at first, but then a lot better, when I felt like myself again. I guess it took that step for me to figure out how to control myself. Mom said it was like I was a ghost for a while."
God, my heart goes out to her. "That's horrible."
"It was." Her hand drops down and her fingers find mine again and my pulse does the quickstep. "Liam?"
"Yes?"
"If you still feel that way," she asks, "why didn't you say anything all these years? You never reached out."
"You told me that you never wanted to speak to me again," I say.
She's quiet. She sighs and tips her head back against the wall. "Yeah, I guess I did," she says. "Part of me wished that you'd ignore me and part of me would've hated you a bit more if you had. Because, you know, I'm incapable of making a decision I'm happy with." Tapping her temple, she lets out a dry laugh.
"Are you happy now?"
After a moment, she says, "Yeah. I am. I like my job, and I actually have money for once in my life. I have an incredible family – Gray may be married, but I still see him, like, five days a week, and Tad is perfect. He and Mom are so happy, and Jasper was the best surprise."
"He seems like a really sweet kid."
"He really is. He's the total opposite of me. I think he must have pretty strong Tad genes, because I see a lot of Gray in him. He's so outgoing and bubbly, everything a three-year-old should be. And having him totally transformed Mom," she says. "I swear she seems ten years younger."
"I'm glad she's doing so well." I remember the early days of our relationship, when half of Storie's stress came from her mom and her inexplicable illness, how she would spend her days and nights worrying that something would happen and she wouldn't be there for her.
"She's doing amazingly. We all are."
I swear it's getting darker in here. The lack of light is playing tricks on me and it really feels like the walls are closing in, like the tight space is getting even tighter. This elevator is already small enough, the kind that says it fits six people but is really designed for four, and my eyes are struggling to focus, which makes it really hard to figure out how close the opposite wall is.
Deep breath. I've never been claustrophobic, but I'm already lightheaded from being in here with Storie, so the dark and the tight space don't help. It's getting hot in here. My clothes are getting tighter; I want to peel off my coat and fan my face but I can't bring myself to move.
Storie nudges me. "You ok?"
I nod. It's not convincing. "I'm a bit hot. Is it hot in here?"
"It's warm," she says, "but I can't tell if that's because it's actually warm or it's just my panicky body heat."
It is warm. There's no aircon in here. I don't even know if there's any airflow. Maybe we'll suffocate in here if no-one finds us soon. It's not the kind of thought I need to be having. I close my eyes and try to pretend I'm at home, sitting in bed and leaning against the wall. It helps to have Storie next to me, anchoring me.
The minutes pass. So does the discomfort. It slips off like a shedding skin, my chest realising its tightness and my body heat slowly returning to a normal level. Maybe it's just being here with Storie that set me out of whack. She does things to my body and my brain, sending them into overdrive even when I can't see her.
"It was really hard to leave you," she says. Her words come out of nowhere. We haven't spoken for what feels like forever, but is probably only a few minutes. I have no idea what time it is or how long we've been stuck in here.
"What?"
"Leaving you was really hard," she says. "I've done a lot of hard stuff in my life, but that was up there. Top five. Maybe even top three."
"Really?" I know she's not saying that lightly. Life has put her through her paces. I don't know how she has gone through everything she has gone through and come out smiling on the other side. My dad and I aren't that close – at least, we weren't before a few days ago – but I would be absolutely crushed if he died. I don't know how I'd go on – I don't know how Mom would go on, how we would pick up the pieces.
Storie's dad was her best friend, though. I wish I could have met him. I loved hearing her stories about him. She would get this wistful smile that glazed over her eyes when she talked about him, idly murmuring memories when something triggered a thought. Once, I told her she was my favourite story. It was an offhand comment, a cheesy joke about her name, and she told me about how her dad used to say the same thing.
She spoke with such vivid detail that even though I never met him, even though I never heard his voice, I could picture the scene and it brought a lump to my throat when I heard her voice catch every time she talked about him. It killed her to talk about him for a while, but it was a sacrifice she seemed willing to make. Talking about him kept him alive.
"Yeah, that really sucked," she said. "I still loved you when I left you, and I had no idea if I was doing the right thing but I knew that if I stayed, I'd feel worse. I didn't realize you'd be so damn hard to get over, Liam Alexander."
*
It has actually been hours now. Storie has pressed the emergency alarm a thousand times; we've tried the intercom and our phones but nobody answers the crackling radio and there's no signal in this damn metal box, and I'm not sure how long we can take this.
"We're going to die in here, aren't we?"
The panic in Storie's voice tells me that she's not kidding. She's actually scared, pressed into the corner by the intercom as she presses it again and waits for a response. "If we don't get out soon, we'll suffocate to death in here and no-one will find us for ages because they're all tucked up in their homes."
"Hey, we're gonna be fine," I say. My phone's running low on battery but I use the flashlight to brighten the elevator for a moment, long enough to see fear flashing in her wild eyes. She's hugging her elbows tightly to herself and her braid is coming loose where she has fiddled with it so much that it looks like she's been running backwards through a bush.
"You said that two hours ago and we're still stuck here and I don't think anyone knows."
"Someone has to know," I say. "There's no way that in a building like this, no-one has tried to call the elevator. Maybe they're just working on fixing it and the radios are down."
"Or maybe this is how we die."
I pull her into a hug to calm her down and shut her up, because having her voicing the niggling fears at the back of my mind really isn't helping but holding her really does help. "We're not going to die in here. We're just going to be a bit uncomfortable for a bit longer, until they get the power going again and we can get out and go lie in the snow for a while."
"Sounds like a plan," she says, with absolutely no conviction behind her words. It's more of a hope than a plan anyway, when there's nothing I can do about being rescued.
But the hope works. The lights flicker on. When the elevator churns to life and starts to descend, Storie yelps and clings to me. I have a flash vision of it hurtling out of control and crushing us in the basement, but it continues at a steady pace.
The radio crackles on, more than two hours after we first called it, and a distorted voice says, "Sorry about that, guys. Technical difficulties. Everything should be up and running now, though."
"Technical difficulties?" Storie splutters. "We've been stuck in here for hours."
She doesn't let go of me until the elevator eases itself to a stop on the first floor and the doors peel open, and she races out before it can change its mind and trap us again. There are people hanging around in the lobby, grumbling and hanging around instead of facing the stairs. I don't blame them. The top apartments, where Kris lives, are thirty floors up.
As though they haven't just watched us flee the ancient elevator, a few people fill it. I don't plan to ever get in it again.
Storie heads straight outside. It's barely ten degrees out, so cold that I swear my eyelids start to freeze to my eyeballs the moment we step out of the stifling heat of the elevator. She bends over her knees and sucks in a deep breath of cold, fresh air. The air fogs when she lets it out, the next few breaths a little shakier.
"We made it," she says, and she laughs. "Oh my God, I'm glad I wasn't alone in there. I would've died." She throws her arms around me with ease, the sudden hug taking me by surprise even though she's been latched onto me for the past twenty minutes, and I lose my footing on the icy ground.
We both go down. My ass hits the sidewalk full force, hard enough to make me gasp. Numb pain shoots from my butt; Storie landed on her knees and brushes them as she stands with a flustered apology.
"I'm so sorry, oh my God," she says, extending a hand to pull me up. A wicked part of me is half tempted to pull her down again, but I'm not a jackass. At least, not anymore. I stand, a little unsteady, and decide that I probably haven't broken my butt when it's only a bit uncomfortable to stand.
"If you want me that badly, you can just say," I joke. "No need to tackle me to the ground."
Storie covers her mouth. "I'm so sorry," she says, shaking her head. "Are you hurt? Are you ok?"
"Just a bruised ego," I say. She laughs and brushes snow from my pants, mumbling apologies.
"I think the café will be closed now," she says, and her eyes widen when she checks her phone. It's already ten o'clock. "Damn. Definitely closed."
"It's fine. I can get the bus back to mine. Maybe we can do it some other time?" I try not to let my disappointment show. Storie shakes her head.
"It's late and cold. And you're wearing elf shoes. You're not getting the bus." She glances at my feet and holds back a laugh. "Come back to mine. We can have a drink there."
My heart stops. At least, it's cold enough and I'm numb enough that it feels that way. "Are you sure?"
Storie's smile is intoxicating. She has a dimple in one cheek that seems to deepen the more I stare at it, until I manage to tear my eyes from it and back to hers. Her eyes are just as mesmerizing. The kind of deep, dark brown that I swear I could get lost in. I could literally lose myself, just standing in front of her and looking into her eyes and listening to whatever she has to say.
"I'm sure," she says. "I have coffee, hot cocoa, and beer. Whatever you want. I think we've earned a drink after that." She jangles her keys and we trudge through the snow, which has gotten a couple inches deeper since we arrived to drop off Jasper.
"Are you sure about me coming over?" I ask. I hate sounding so insecure, but I guess I am. "It's getting late. I don't want to impose."
Storie leans against her door. "If you don't want to, you don't have to," she says, her smile fading. "But we planned to go for a drink and we haven't done that yet, and I could really use a beer to calm myself down a bit, and I'd like to have one with you. You can stay over." She lifts one shoulder in an uncertain shrug. "We can talk without the fear of imminent death by elevator."
"Ok." She sounds so sure. So confident. She's almost a different Storie to the one I knew, a different book, and I love it. I love when she gives me that intoxicating smile, when she beckons for me to get in the car, when she puts on a pair of glasses to drive in the dark. Her gloved hand brushes mine as we set off.
I don't know if she means to. But I catch her eye and she holds my gaze for just a second, and it's enough.
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I hope you liked this! I have a few more prewritten chapters and I'm hoping to get a bunch of writing done over the weekend too!