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I can hardly see through the rain that starts to fall as soon as we hit the road. Storie drives at a snail's pace, her wipers going furiously to keep the windscreen clear, but there's only so much they can do when the downpour is so sudden and so torrential. Rain bounces off the glass like bullets, a deafening clatter on the roof.
"This is why I hate winter," she mutters as she drives. "I'm so done with all the rain and ice and snow."
"At least it's cozy," I say, but I'm with her. I hate the long nights and short days, the cold that sinks in and chills me to my bones until spring eventually lifts its head some time in March. I must have Mom's southern genes, because I'd much rather have year-round sun. I can't stand the cold and dark. I hate the seasonal sadness that clouds my brain, the lack of light ruining my mood.
"I guess," she says. "Not much space to make a snowman out here though. I miss having a garden."
"Me too."
"Maybe I'll go home just to make snowmen with Jasper. Make the most of the weather." She comes to a steady stop at a red light and lets out a sigh. The car hasn't warmed up yet and her breath fogs the air. The sight alone makes me shiver. She catches sight of me and says, "Don't worry, my apartment's a lot warmer than my car."
"Good to hear. I can't say the same about my place."
She looks at me, pity in her eyes. "Your place sounds sad," she says quietly. I can't argue there. My place is sad, with its sloping walls and pathetic bathroom and dodgy window, and everything else that makes it a crappy place to live, but I don't want to sit here and beg her sympathy.
"It's fine. It does what I need it to do," I say. It's a roof over my head. It could be worse.
"Mmm," she hums to herself, and it seems like she's about to say something else but traffic starts moving when the light goes green and she sets off. "Well, as long as you're ok. You seem..." Trailing off, she shrugs, and I'm glad. I don't really want her to finish that sentence. I don't want to hear her tell me how I seem when I know how I feel.
"You seem kind of sad," she says after a moment, when I thought we were out of the danger zone of her finishing her thought. "You don't seem like yourself."
"I'm fine," I say. "Just, you know, trying to figure out my life. Turns out it's something I should've done in college. Who knew?" I laugh. She doesn't. But she does put her hand on my knee. Maybe to comfort me, maybe to shut me up. It does both.
For a couple of minutes, anyway, until I open my mouth again. But I don't know what to say. I can't tell her I'm fine, else it'll seem even more like I'm not, and I am, in the grand scheme of things. The past year or so has been a wobble, sure, but things will get back on track. I've just been temporarily derailed, but I can't shake the feeling that Storie is the rescue service.
I've never believed in fate. It seems like a load of crap, a way to blame stuff on the universe and destiny, but what were the chances of us meeting again like that? I don't know the odds, but they feel pretty slim.
"Home sweet home," she says when we pull into a lot beneath an apartment block ten minutes after leaving Kris's building. "I wasn't expecting to have anyone over, so please excuse the mess."
That's the kind of thing my mom says to visitors. The kinds of people who are only a step closer than strangers or acquaintances.
We come to the elevator that serves every floor of the building from the garage to the penthouse. Storie pauses. She lets out a quiet laugh.
"Is it stupid that I don't really want to get in?"
"I don't either," I say. The chances of getting trapped in another elevator must be crazy low, but for some reason, my brain decides that is definitely what's going to happen. "What floor do you live on?"
With a grimace, Storie says, "Twenty-fifth."
"Ah. Shit. We're definitely getting in."
The doors open. At least this elevator is a little more spacious, but it doesn't help the way my chest seizes when we step inside and Storie presses the button for her floor, and we stand shoulder to shoulder against the mirrored wall. I hate those stupid mirrored walls in elevators. They always catch me by surprise: the doors open and I jump at the sight of myself.
"I think I'm going to move to the first floor," Storie says with a quiet laugh as we reach the seventh and then the eighth. "I never thought twice about taking the elevator at least twice a day. Now I'm not so sure."
We reach the twentieth and the twenty-first. My nerves flicker, buzzing on edge until we hit twenty-five and the lift judders. After a moment of nothing, the doors peel open with a ping and the force of my relief almost has me on the floor.
"Come on," Storie says, her fingers curling around my elbow. "Let's not spend a second more than necessary in there." Her grip is firm and reassuring and I feel like such a mess, especially when she seems to put together. She has her life in control. She is owning it. I feel like I'm just a player in mine, getting through each day only for another to spring up.
She lets us into her apartment and I can't help the way my eyes bug out and my jaw actually drops. Storie blushes at my reaction. I hastily gather myself.
"Wow. Holy crap. This place is amazing."
Floor to ceiling windows dominate one wall and over the tops of other buildings, I can see the glimmer of Lake Erie. Lights from the waterfront bounce off the surface, the rain smearing the glow and somehow making it look even more magical.
Her living room alone is twice the size of my entire apartment, plenty of space for a sofa and a television on a stand, and a coffee table between them. She even has proper decorations, from the flowers in a vase on her kitchen table to photographs and paintings that fill every surface and every space on the walls. Her fridge is covered in sheets of Jasper's childish scribbles; photos of her and her family are framed around the room. There's even one of just her and her stepdad standing by the Cleveland script sign. It's strangely endearing. She looks truly happy, her arm thrown around him with a beam on her face.
"I'm very lucky," Storie says. She looks embarrassed by my gawping. I make an effort to be less in awe of this place, but that's hard. One of the three doors leading off the living room is open, and seems to be a miniature library and office, a desk against the window and bookshelves lining the walls.
"No kidding. This is incredible."
Her cheeks darken as she unbuttons her coat and hangs it over a chair. I do the same, only then remembering what I'm wearing underneath. This elf costume really isn't my best look, but it makes Storie laugh when she sees it again. She takes a couple of glasses out of a cupboard – glasses that actually match – then a bottle of white wine from the fridge, and a couple of beers.
"This is all I have," she says, and registering my expression, she tilts her head and asks, "What?"
"You're such an adult, oh my God," I say, unable to contain the thought any longer. "A freaking incredible apartment; matching glasses; wine in the fridge."
She chuckles and says, "The glasses and the wine are all me, but I would never be able to afford this place in a million years. It's all down to Kris. He bought it a few years ago as an investment and when I told him I was moving to Cleveland, he offered it to me. He doesn't have to pay rent or a mortgage, so I just pay the bills."
"Damn. That's, like, the ideal arrangement."
"I can't complain," she says. She nods at the sofa and I sit, and she brings over the drinks. I want to treasure this moment forever. I wish I'd appreciated the moments like this more when we were together. The moments of just being together, hanging out and not doing much at all. "Beer?"
"Yes, please," I say, and rather than just passing me the bottle, she pops off the twist cap and expertly pours it into a glass. "I love that photo, the one of you and Tad."
She follows my gaze and beams. "It's a good one, isn't it? A few months ago, Tad had a work thing in Cleveland so we went out for lunch together and had some spare time, so we did a few tourist things," she says, such an easy smile on her face as she talks and pours herself a glass of wine.
I can't believe how much she has grown up. I mean, when we were together, she was already a million times more mature than me, but now she seems like such an adult. I can't get over it, and I find myself just staring at her, soaking up the past four years.
"What're you looking at?" she asks with a laugh.
"You. Sorry. Just ... you amaze me." The words spill out. I don't regret them – they're true – but I hate sounding like such a broken record, nothing more coherent to say than the basically profess my love all over again. "How's it been, having a stepdad?" I ask, if only to move on from my gushing.
Her smile softens. She leans back, twisting slightly to face me. "Incredible," she murmurs. "I remember being so nervous when Mom first told me that she and Tad were together. I was happy and I was happy for her, but I was nervous too. I didn't know what it would be like. But he has brought out a side of her I hadn't seen for years. They just fit. And it's a massive bonus that he and I can hang out and I love it."
"That's amazing. I'm so happy for your mom, Storie. And you." My gaze shifts around the room and lands on a family photo that must be recent. Storie's mom and Tad are standing on the edge of the lake, their arms around Storie and Gray, and Jasper is on his dad's shoulders. "You guys are the cutest family."
Storie smiles, staring at the photo. Their family is like a jigsaw made out of several different puzzles, none of the pieces matching but somehow making a perfect picture, like some kind of abstract painting. She sips her wine. I sip my beer.
"So..." She draws out the word, one long syllable. "You have to tell me. How did you end up in that?" She nods at my costume.
Cringing, I tell her the story from start to finish. I tell her about losing my job and struggling to find work, about accidentally ending up in a Starbucks in University Circle and seeing an ad. I tell her about Kaylani and the lack of any costumes in a decent size. The whole long spiel comes tumbling out, until I realize that I'm rambling about dinner with my dad.
"Are you guys closer now?" Storie asks. She's on her second glass of wine. I'm still making my way through my first beer, talking too much to drink.
"I didn't think so. Honestly, when he offered to drive me back, I was shitting myself. I really didn't think we could manage a few hours alone together. Usually Mom's around, or he has the girls to fuss over. We're never alone. But it was ... nice. He's not as scary as he seems. Not a full-on James Bond villain."
She laughs, then covers her mouth. Her eyes widen. "Please tell me you never told him I said that," she says. "Oh my God, I'll die if you did."
"I didn't, I didn't, don't worry. I kind of thought it too, after you said it."
"Something tells me he wouldn't appreciate me saying that."
"Isn't it every man's dream to look like a Bond villain?"
"You tell me."
"Well..." I attempt a dramatic hair flip. "I do think I make a pretty good Pussy Galore."
Storie splutters a laugh, spraying wine over me. "Oh my God, I wasn't expecting that," she says, laughter bubbling out of her. It's the most magical sight. She looks so free. I'm not sure if I was the cage or the key.
I don't know how the time flies so fast, but it does. The next time I check the clock, it's midnight already and I have to be at the garden center for nine. Eight, if I want an extra ten bucks, but I'd rather sacrifice that for an extra hour with Storie. Even if that time is just spent eating breakfast and admiring her view, it'll be time well spent.
I've had a couple of beers. Storie stopped after her second glass of wine, screwing the cap back on the bottle and returning it to the fridge. At a quarter after midnight, she takes my empty glass and hers and yawns as she washes them up.
"Thanks for letting me stay, by the way," I say. "I really appreciate it." I don't mention that the thought of returning to my freezing apartment makes me feel queasy. Unless that's just the thought of leaving here and not seeing her again.
"It's no problem," she says with a smile, drying her hands on a dishcloth and pushing her hair off her face. "I'm glad I bumped into you. Very weird circumstances though. I definitely would've had a full-on panic attack if I'd been in that elevator alone, and that is not a pretty sight."
She's not wrong there. I only dealt with a handful of her panic attacks when we were together, and they were agonizing. There was nothing I could do to stop it except be there, just to hold her and reassure her when she got so worked up that all sense and reason went out the window. There was no point trying to be rational in those moments, when she just had to ride it out. It killed me, seeing her trapped in the midst of something like that.
"Anyway," she says, letting out a quiet sigh. When she comes over to me, I expect her to walk straight past and fish out a spare blanket, but she hugs me. Before my brain can get over its shock, my arms know what to do, wrapping around her body and holding her close. I can't help but inhale the scent of her hair, her subtle perfume. That hasn't changed in four years: she still smells the same, an intoxicating cocktail that takes me right back to our relationship.
The hug ends. Whenever it ended, it would've been too soon, and it's too soon when she lets go and rubs her tired eyes. She never was one to stay up late. I guess that hasn't changed either.
"Do you have a blanket or something, for the sofa?"
"Hmm?" She tilts her head, blearily looking at the couch. "Oh. No, that thing's horrible to sleep on," she says. "I've tried. It was more comfortable on the floor."
"Oh. Do you have a spare blanket for the floor?"
"You're not sleeping on the floor," she says, swallowing an infectious yawn. Soon, I can't hold back my own. "The spare room's turned into a bit of a book heaven, but there's plenty of space in my bed."
I stare. Did I hear right? "In your bed?"
"If you don't mind sharing," she adds.
"I don't mind," I blurt out. A bit quick. Way too enthusiastic, even though I know this means nothing more than Storie's kindness and my clear hopelessness. She chuckles, exhaustion in every note. "Are you sure, though?"
She nods. "I'm sure. And it's not like we've never shared a bed," she says. Then she holds up a finger. "No funny business, ok?"
"No funny business," I repeat, the same promise she made me make way back when. My heart aches at the memory of those halcyon days, back when she loved me too. Back when we had something amazing going.
"I have pajamas you can borrow. They'll be way too big, but..." Her eyes drop to my way-too-tight tunic. "Better than too small."
"You're telling me. I'm getting used to not being able to breathe properly."
I follow her to her room. It's so totally Storie, organized chaos with books spilling off every surface in teetering piles despite the abundance of shelves next door. There's a chair dedicated to discarded clothes and her wardrobe doors are wide open, showing off the rainbow of color inside. I notice she still has her yellow dress, the one I loved.
When I lie down in her bed, we're both wearing her pajamas. It feels like a new level of intimacy, but I banish that thought from my mind. It's the last thing I need to think about, lying here next to her in her bed, in her apartment.
The lights are off. I hear her sigh.
"Hey," she murmurs. I roll over to face her. The curtains are open just enough to send artificial city light across her face, reflected in her radiant eyes. She's so beautiful. She has flourished in the years we've been apart and I hate that I missed that; I hate that it's my own fault that I didn't get to grow with her.
"Hi," I murmur back. She says nothing else. We just look at each other. I could stare into her eyes all day, I swear. I don't want to tear my gaze from her, from the way her hair pools around her face and splays over her pillow, to the enticing plumpness of her unpainted lips and the shine of city lights in her dark eyes.
The last time we lay together like this, I didn't have to think twice about cupping her face in my hands and kissing her, exploring her body beneath the sheets. But I can't do anything but return her gaze, and it's killing me. I love her. I still love her so much it hurts, and the pain is so much more acute now that we're here, like this. I can't put her out of my mind when she's lying next to me.
"This is hard," she says, her head sinking into the pillow, one hand tucked beneath it. Her words are quiet, hardly louder than a breath.
"What is?"
Storie sighs. She closes her eyes for a few seconds and when she opens them, she meets mine. One hand is under her pillow but the other falls into the space between us.
"Admitting that I still love you too."
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i hope you enjoyed this chapter! let me know what you think!