“Do I want to know how much Bellamy’s fee was?”
“He gave the friends and family discount. Twenty-five grand.”
“And if I wasn’t a friend?”
“Fifty to seventy-five for someone normal. Up to one-fifty for someone high profile or extremely dangerous. And I called Bellamy. He is sending you the twenty-five k back.”
“What? No, that’s…”
“It wasn’t your request. It was mine. I pay.”
“It was my case. I pay.”
“Unfortunately, the client doesn’t get to choose how much or what they pay.”
His lips were turned up at that, knowing that logic was impossible to argue with.
“Well, you got me there.” I tucked the money into my purse, planning to go to the bank as soon as my face looked less frightening. It would be another three days at most, I imagined, before makeup could cover up the bruises well enough.
“So, can I interest you in a small Criminal Intent binge?”
“Yes!” I perked up, practically throwing myself down on the couch.
And so went the next several days.
Kai went into work for a few hours here and there, but spent most of his time with me, cooking, watching TV, playing games. As it would turn out, I was pretty good at the games on the Xbox, had gotten Kai to get salads or wraps three times in as many days. He’d wiped the floor with me on the arcade games though. I’d been plied with a bucket of fried chicken with a side of potato wedges and then a huge pile of pancakes and, as if those weren’t bad enough, huge, greasy Philly cheesesteaks.
But then it happened.
My bruises faded.
I woke up one morning looking just like myself.
There were no more excuses.
It was time to get back to my life.
I stood there in the mirror after that realization with a sinking feeling in my stomach.
It didn’t feel like enough time.
I wanted to stay.
I knew he would let me, wouldn’t even make a comment if I simply kept staying for another week or two… or even months.
But I couldn’t do that.
Keep playing house in a place that wasn’t my own.
I needed to settle back in my own place.
I needed to get back to work.
I felt the weight of all my untaken chances.
To make a move.
Like Miller had suggested.
Each night, he brought me tea.
I should have reached out, grabbed his wrist, pulled him down in the bed with me.
Each morning, he stood there making my coffee.
I should have walked up and just kissed him.
At some point each day, we would sit in the living room and watch TV.
I should have got up from my couch, and sat with him, cuddled up next to him.
Should have should have should have.
Should – as far as I was concerned – was the worst word in the English language. It represented so much potential, so much self-denial, so many chances that may have led to wonderful things.
But I could never muster that confidence to do it. Partly because I simply never had to do so before. But also partly because I wasn’t sure I could handle the rejection if it showed again.
“I feel like you’re about to tell me you are heading home,” Kai guessed accurately as I walked into the kitchen after getting ready for the day, carefully packing my things away as I pretended to ignore the distinct sensation of wrongness inside me.
“I think it is time to get back to things. Work. My life.” I cringed as soon as the words were out, interpreting them the way Kai might. The way that said this was fun while it lasted, but I had no interest in this life long-term. And, judging by the almost guarded look – something wholly unnatural to him – I was right in thinking he would take it the wrong way. “Don’t get me wrong,” I rushed to add. “I have had such a great time here. But I will never get used to being in my apartment again if I don’t at least try.”
He nodded at that, understanding, even if his eyes seemed a little less happy than they had been when I had seen him before bed the night before.
“I get that. I know you feel weird about going back. But, hey, if you get there and decide it’s not going to work after all, I’m here. The room is here. You don’t even need to call,” he told me, reaching into his junk drawer – something I cringed at existing at all given that it was really just a catch-all for every odd thing from paper clips to screwdrivers and birthday candles and tape with absolutely no organization of said contents at all – for a pad and pen, jotting something down before handing it to me.
“What’s this?” I asked, looking down at numbers.
“The code to get in.”
I looked down at the numbers again, feeling a twinge of recognition, but unable to have the memory surface, so I took the code and tucked it into my wallet.