Chapter 4: The Weekend Begins
The weekend arrived on a gust of wet, chilly wind. Friday afternoon, Adam heard the key turn in the lock—Marco again, undoubtedly—and then the soft thud of a duffel bag hitting the floor.
“It’s me!” Holland’s voice echoed, too bright, through the cavernous entryway. “Don’t shoot.”
He found her in the living room, already claiming territory. She’d toed off her sneakers, leaving them discarded by the pristine white sofa. She wore the promised crop top and jeans, a sliver of toned, tanned stomach exposed as she stretched, arching her back with a dramatic sigh.
“I am so dead,” she announced, flopping backward onto the Italian leather. She landed with a force that made him wince. “Art History is actual torture. Two hours on Baroque frescoes. I think my retinas are burned.”
“You made it, though,” Adam said, leaning against the doorframe. He’d changed into dark jeans and a gray sweater after work. He felt like a warden waiting for the inmate to misstep.
“Barely.” She turned her head on the cushion, looking at him. Her hair fanned out. “My professor has this monotone drone. It’s like being slowly buried in sand. You have no idea.”
“I probably do.” He nodded toward the duffel. “That’s all you brought?”
“For two nights? Yeah. I travel light.” She sat up, curling her legs beneath her. “Your shirt’s in there, by the way. Washed and folded. See? I keep my promises.”
He didn’t mention that he’d already checked his closet, noting its absence. “The fumigation cover everything?”
“What?” For a fraction of a second, her eyes blanked. Then she recovered. “Oh, the dorm. Yeah, total nightmare. They said roaches, but I think it’s just mold. The whole place smells like bleach and despair.” She unzipped her bag, pulling out the neatly folded dress shirt. She held it up. “Good as new.”
He took it from her. The fabric was soft, smelling of his own laundry detergent. She’d used his machine. “Thanks.”
“No problem.” She stood, stretching again with a small, involuntary groan. “God, I’m stiff. And kinda gross from the train. Do you mind if I shower?”
“Guest bathroom is down the hall. Towels are in the cabinet.”
“You’re a saint.” She grabbed the duffel and padded away, throwing him a smile over her shoulder.
He put his shirt away, listening to the distant hiss of water. The apartment felt different with her in it. The air held a new charge, a scent of coconut and salt beneath the clean linen. He poured himself a whiskey, neat, and stood at the windows, watching the red taillights bleed into the grid below.
Twenty minutes later, the scent of steam and her sweet shampoo preceded her. She emerged not in pajamas, but in a robe. It was silk, the color of pale cream, and it was dangerously short. The hem skimmed the middle of her thighs. The tie was cinched, but the V of the neckline gaped with every movement. She was barefoot, her skin flushed pink from the heat.
“Feel a million times better,” she said, drifting toward the kitchen. “You have any tea? Something herbal?”
“Top cabinet, left of the sink.”
He heard the clatter of doors. Then a pause. “Wow. You have a serious bar in here. This gin is, like, museum quality.”
“I have guests sometimes.” He didn’t move from the window.
“Business types, I bet. Super boring.” She emerged with a box of chamomile, but no mug. She wandered to the living room, sinking into the corner of the sofa opposite where he’d eventually sat. She curled up, the robe pulling tight across her legs. “So what’s the plan for tonight? Hot date? Poker with the guys?”
“I have some work to finish.”
“On a Friday? That’s tragic.” She tore open the tea bag, fiddling with the string. “I was thinking… since I’m invading your space… maybe I could make you dinner later. As a thank you.”
“The omelet was sufficient.”
“That was breakfast. This is dinner. Different category.” She looked at him, her head tilted. The robe’s collar slipped off one shoulder. She didn’t adjust it. “Unless you’re sick of me already.”
“It’s been an hour, Holland.”
She laughed, a soft, husky sound. “Fair. Okay, no dinner. But can I at least have a little pour of that museum gin? For educational purposes. I’ve never had good gin.”
He should have said no. The word was there, formed and ready. But the refusal felt unnecessarily harsh, a confirmation of his own nervous tension. “Glasses are above the dishwasher.”
She uncurled herself and floated back to the kitchen. He heard the clear clink of crystal. She returned with two glasses, a generous finger of gin in each. She handed one to him. “To a peaceful weekend,” she said, clinking her glass against his. She took a sip, her eyes watering slightly. “Wow. That’s… piney.”
“It’s an acquired taste.”
“I’m acquiring it.” She settled back, closer this time. Not quite touching, but the heat from her body was a palpable thing in the space between them. She pulled her legs up, tucking her feet beside his thigh on the cushion. “So, since you’re basically my warden, can I ask you a work question?”
“I doubt it.”
“No, seriously. It’s for my econ class. I’m completely lost.” She set her glass down and leaned forward, reaching for her duffel. The movement made the robe fall open along her thigh. She pulled out a textbook, blank and new, and a single, crumpled page of notes. “It’s about opportunity cost. I just can’t visualize it.”
She shuffled closer, until their knees were almost touching. She spread the paper on the cushion between them, her finger tracing a meaningless diagram. “Okay, so if you have a resource, and you choose to use it for Option A, you lose the potential benefits from Option B. Right?”
“That’s the basic premise.”
“But how do you quantify the lost option? If you can’t see it, how do you know its value?” She looked up at him. Her eyes were wide, clear. The innocence from the kitchen was back, but now it was layered with the intimacy of the robe, the shared drink, the deepening twilight.
“You use data. Projections. Sometimes you have to make an educated guess.”
“A guess.” She nodded slowly, as if absorbing a great truth. Her hand, which had been pointing at the paper, drifted. It came to rest on his knee. A light, casual touch. “So it’s about imagining what you’re giving up.”
He didn’t move. “Yes.”
Her fingers pressed a little more firmly. They began a slow, absent-minded stroke along the inseam of his jeans, up his thigh, just a few inches. Her gaze was still locked on his, feigning academic curiosity. “And if the lost option is something… intangible? Something you can’t put in a spreadsheet?”
The air vanished from the room. The city’s hum receded to a dull roar. All he could feel was the heat of her hand through the denim, the deliberate, creeping path of her fingers.
“Then you’re in the realm of preference. Not economics.”
Her lips parted. A tiny, calculated breath. Her fingers moved higher. “Maybe I’m in the wrong class.”
He finally moved. His hand closed over hers, stopping its ascent. His grip was firm, not painful, but absolute. The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the frantic hammer of his own pulse in his ears.
She didn’t pull away. She just looked down at their joined hands, then back up at him. The innocent student was gone, erased. What looked back at him was cold, assessing, and utterly unsurprised. A gambler seeing a expected card turn over.
“Holland.” His voice was low, rough. “Stop.”
A slow smile touched her mouth. Not one of victory, but of confirmation. She’d gotten her answer. She’d quantified the lost option.
“Okay,” she said softly, sliding her hand from beneath his. She picked up her gin, took a long swallow, and didn’t flinch this time. “Just checking my understanding.”