Walk of Shame

by Lauren Layne

  “Yeah, well, laundry detergent was a real stumper, what with it being on top of the washing machine and all.”

  “You’re feeling better, I see,” he says as I dig a fork into the crusty cheese topping of the lasagna. “I may need to reheat that.”

  “Nah, is good,” I say around a bite. “Want some?” I push the container toward him, knowing there’s zero chance that Andrew Mulroney will lower himself enough to eat directly out of a disposable foil container of takeout.

  But he shocks the hell out of me by digging a fork into the other side and taking a bite.

  He sets the fork down as he chews, then goes over to my cute gold bar cart that has a small wine rack built in. He pulls out a bottle and examines the label. “You mind?”

  “Take your pick,” I say, still shoveling in the lasagna, pausing only long enough to rip open a bag of garlic bread and take a too-big bite of that as well. “Wine opener’s in the second drawer, glasses to the left of the fridge,” I say.

  “You want a glass, or are you sticking to nonalcoholic fluids?” he says.

  “The latter,” I say, taking a gulp of water. “You have extra wine, and I’ll live vicariously.”

  “Your color’s better,” he says, taking a sip of the wine, then returning to the counter and picking up his fork.

  “Yes, I’m sure I look beautiful,” I say, patting my wet bun and gesturing at the oversized T-shirt that an old boyfriend left behind. I barely remember the guy, but the shirt’s the comfiest thing I own.

  I take another bite of lasagna and, as I wipe at a string of cheese on my chin, it occurs to me how dang comfortable I am sitting across from Andrew Mulroney, looking my absolute worst while shoving cheese and carbs into my mouth at an alarming rate.

  “How was work?” I ask, changing my mind about the wine and reaching for his glass. I can’t quite reach it, and he nudges it nearer.

  “Fine. Mostly a lot of catch-up, but Shelley and my partners did a good job of keeping things running while I was out.”

  “That’s good.” I take another bite of garlic bread, but my chewing slows when I see him studying me.

  “What?” I wipe my mouth with my hand.

  “I’m sorry I left today,” he says quietly.

  His apology catches me off guard, and I try to brush it away with a carefree smile. “No need to apologize. I wasn’t expecting you to stay.” Andrew blinks, his expression so unexpectedly hurt that I reach out a hand. “Wait, no. I didn’t mean it like that.”

  He reaches again for his fork. “Sure.”

  “I just meant I took care of you for one day, you took care of me yesterday. We’re even.”

  “Is that what we’re doing here? Just tit for tat?”

  “No, I’m just saying…I get it. You had to work today. And let’s not forget you spooned me when I wanted to die. I’d say you went above and beyond the call of duty for a frenemy. Actually, yeah. Let’s forget that.”

  He takes a sip of wine watching me. “Frenemy.”

  “Fitting, right?” I say, offering him a piece of cheesy garlic bread, because it’s the least sexy food on the planet and I’m hoping it’ll defuse some of this tension.

  He doesn’t accept it, and I scramble for something to keep the easy mood between us. For some reason, the thought of us retreating to that place of being acrimonious strangers fills me with dread.

  I like us being friendly, I like him talking to me, I like…him.

  Crap.

  “So, I talked to Hailey this afternoon,” I blurt out.

  Andrew blinks. “So?”

  The lasagna churns a little in my stomach when I realize that he doesn’t ask me to clarify who Hailey is.

  I drop the garlic bread and fix a smile on my face. “She was calling to see if that whole kiss disaster was for real.”

  He slowly sets his wineglass back down. “And what did you tell her?”

  “The truth.” I lift my shoulders and let them drop. “That it was nothing. Just a misplaced attempt to best each other.”

  Andrew crosses his arms. “Why would she care?”

  I roll my eyes. “For someone who was a boy genius, you can kind of be a dolt sometimes. She likes you.”

  Andrew leans forward, elbows on the counter, studying me. “And how do you feel about that?”

  I swallow. It’s the most direct he’s ever been, the first opening he’s ever given me to take the first step. To say that maybe we could be more than frenemies.

  I open my mouth to tell him that I feel wretched about the thought of him with Hailey. That the thought of them holding hands and kissing and him taking care of her when she’s sick makes me want to barf up all the delicious lasagna.

  But then I picture how he’d react if I said that. I picture that unsmiling, sometimes unfriendly face not responding even the tiniest bit to my announcement…so I take the safe route.

  “I think she’d be the perfect girl for you,” I say quietly.

  The worst thing is, some part of me means it, even as the other part wants to tell him that he needs someone messy and ridiculous to help him not take everything so seriously.

  “You do?” he says.

  I smile and nod. “Yup. She’s going to ask you to go to a fundraiser next week, and for the love of God, don’t be a stiff about it.”

  Andrew stands up straight, starts to pick up his wineglass, then instead shoves his hands into his pockets. He’s always hard to read, but he’s an especially blank slate right now.

  “Or you could ask her out sooner,” I say, my voice sounding manic and crazy. “I bet she’s free tomorrow.”

  What are you doing, Georgie?

  I ignore my subconscious, charging ahead in a futile hope that maybe the sooner I see him with someone else, the sooner I’ll banish the futile hope that he might want to be with me.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” I continue. “She told me you’ve already texted her, so it won’t be that hard to keep doing it.”

  I hold my breath just a little, wanting him to deny it. To tell me that he hasn’t been texting Hailey while I’ve never gotten a single text or call from him.

  No, you moron. No text, just flowers, and soup, and a cuddle, and lasagna, and…

  “All right,” he says, interrupting my thoughts before my still-slow brain can put all the pieces together.

  “All right what?”

  He shrugs. “I’ll ask her out.”

  My face feels like it cracks when I smile. Not unlike what it feels like my heart is doing.

  “Awesome,” I say, shoveling another bite of lasagna into my mouth, even though I’m borderline queasy. “Want any help figuring out what to say?”

  “Believe it or not, I’ve asked a woman on a date before.”

  I lift my eyebrows in challenge, and his gaze goes angry. He pulls his phone out of his pocket.

  Before I can regret my impulse to call his bluff, his fingers move quickly across the screen before holding it up. “There. I asked out your friend. Happy?”

  No. So not happy. Not even close.

  I lean forward and whisper, “Can I be your best woman at the wedding?”

  He shakes his head in disgust and takes a big sip of his wine, nearly draining the glass before leaning down and picking up his briefcase. “You need anything else? I’m still behind on work—I should get back to my place and get started.”

  “Wow, working on a Friday night,” I say. “You sure know how to live it up. At least take the wine with you.”

  It’s the sort of dialogue that’s practically second nature to us, but the words feel false and hollow once they’re out there.

  “I’m sorry I opened it,” he says. “I thought—”

  Andrew clears his throat, and I jump on his hesitation. “You thought what?”

  “Nothing. Never mind. I’ll return the key downstairs,” he says, heading toward the door. “No more unexpected visits.”

  I’ve got no quippy comebacks for that, so I simply nod and smile.
Or at least I think I smile. Mostly I feel like a lump of nothingness.

  I know. You’re frustrated with me right now. I’m frustrated with me too, because I’m usually honest to a fault, and here I am not telling this guy that I…like him. Really like him.

  I’ve never had a problem telling a guy how I felt.

  But I don’t think I’ve ever felt this way before. Ever.

  Georgie

  SATURDAY NIGHT

  Some days you do all the things and still worry you’re not doing crap with your life.

  Some days you manage to wash and dry your hair and put on mascara and feel like a freaking boss.

  Today’s the latter.

  I’m feeling a hundred times better than I did yesterday, a million times better than I did on Thursday, although I’m still not in the mood to put myself out there in the world.

  I take a rain check on dinner with my mom. I’ll see her tomorrow at brunch.

  And I definitely don’t feel like going out with the group for my friend Jackie’s birthday shindig tonight, and duck out of that one as well.

  You sure? Marley texts when I tell her. I haven’t seen you in forever—you were being a hermit even before you got sick. You okay?

  What I want to say is, No, not okay. Not okay because the stupid lawyer in my building is asking out our friend. And because I was stupid enough to tell him to do it.

  But what I really text back is, Totally. I’ll be better next week, just in a homebody mood lately.

  She replies, I can stop by for drinks before I meet up with the group, if you want.

  I’m tempted to take her up on it. Maybe I’ll feel better if I have a shoulder to cry on.

  Then again, sometimes talking about things only makes them worse. You know how when you want to cry but you hold it together right up until the second some kind soul asks if you’re okay, and it’s like those simple words are all it takes to summon the tears?

  I’m good. Go have fun. I’ve got a hot date with HBO.

  Fine, be a turd. We’ll miss you anyway, Marley texts.

  I have to set my phone aside to keep from asking who we includes—if Hailey’s going with the group tonight.

  Jackie and Hailey are pretty close, right? Surely Hailey wouldn’t ditch her friend on her birthday just because a guy asked her out.

  I glance at the clock. It’s a few minutes after six. I’m annoyed with myself for not snatching Andrew’s stupid phone out of his stupid hand and finding out exactly what he texted Hailey—if he’d asked her out for tonight or for next week. I thought I didn’t want to know, but not knowing is way more hideous.

  I plow my fingers into my hair before dropping my arms, shaking my hands, and taking a deep breath. Get it together, Georgie. You are not the girl who turns into a hot mess because of a guy.

  I go to the cabinet, pull out a wineglass, and pour a small glass of the wine Andrew opened last night, refusing to think about how right it felt to share a spontaneous meal with the jerk.

  I take my wine into the living room and turn on the TV, flipping around blindly for something to watch. Nothing catches my interest, and I wonder if I shouldn’t take Marley up on her offer after all.

  I’ve just turned off the TV and taken a sip of wine when there’s a knock at the door.

  My head swings toward the door as my heart begins to pound in, well…yeah, hope.

  I set my wine on the counter and look through the peephole. The hope blooms from seed to flower at the irritated scowl on the other side of the door.

  I carefully wipe the smile from my face and swing the door open. “Good evening, Andy.”

  His hands are on his hips, and it takes me a second to register that I’ve never seen this version of him. He’s wearing dark jeans and a black shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbows.

  I’ve seen Sick Andrew, Work Andrew, and Gym Andrew, but this is new. This is Date Andrew.

  He looks amazing, but it’s hard to get too excited about this, knowing that his reason for looking both casual and delicious is that he’s about to take some other woman out to dinner.

  “You forget something?” I ask.

  Andrew reaches out one hand, bracing it on the door frame, the other still at his waist, the picture of a pissed-off man.

  “You want to know why I texted Hailey?” he asks, leaning forward.

  “Um, to ask her out?” I ask, instinctively taking a step back from the anger in his gaze.

  “I mean before yesterday.”

  I shrug.

  “It’s because I wanted to know what sort of fucking flowers you liked. Only she didn’t know what kind you liked, so I texted her for nothing, and then you made me pay for it.”

  “I…what? I’m confused.”

  “Yeah, me too,” he snaps. “How’d you even know that I texted her?”

  “She told me,” I say.

  “Why?” he says, lifting his other hand so it too is braced on the door frame, almost as though he’s deliberately disallowing me from leaving this apartment or this conversation.

  I look away, and he reaches out and grabs my chin between his thumb and forefinger, drawing my gaze back around. “Why, Georgiana? Why would you care if I texted your friend?”

  “Because you’ve never texted me!”

  “So?”

  “So I texted you the other day, and you never texted back.”

  “Let me get this straight,” he says, his voice a low growl as his thumb runs lightly along my jaw. “I didn’t reply to your one text, which said hi, and you take that to mean I want to date your friend?”

  “Well, it sounds a little ridiculous when you put it that way, but—”

  “No, it sounds a lot ridiculous,” he says, stepping toward me, forcing me to step back.

  His hand lifts. Slides into my hair to cup the back of my head as his other hand reaches behind him to slam my front door.

  My heart is pounding in hopeful exhilaration.

  “You know why I didn’t reply to your text, Georgiana?” His fingers press against the back of my head, a gentle, insistent pressure.

  I shake my head.

  “Because when it comes to you, I seem to make a mess of everything. Because saying nothing at all seemed better than saying the wrong thing. And forgive me if I’m wrong here, but the one and only text you sent me wasn’t exactly earth-shattering, am I right?”

  I lick my lips nervously. “I may have made a mountain out of a molehill on the whole texting thing.”

  His eyebrows lift. “You think?”

  “But last night you texted Hailey to ask her out. I saw you,” I say, trying to wriggle away.

  His other arm slips around me, his palm settling against my back, holding me still.

  “I was pissed,” he says. “I acted rashly.”

  I meet his eyes. “Is that a first?”

  “Acting rashly? Perhaps. Being annoyed at you? Definitely not.”

  “So are you going out with her?” I ask softly.

  “I meant to,” he says. “I made reservations. Dressed for it.”

  “To punish me.”

  He sighs tiredly and rests his forehead against mine. “To move on from you.”

  A few minutes ago I was very determined that my sadness wouldn’t kill me, but the happiness I feel right now? That might kill me. I feel like I’m bursting with it.

  I lift my hands, settling them against his chest, my eyes locked on the button of his shirt I’ve started fiddling with because I’m also feeling unexpectedly shy. A definite first.

  “And have you?” I ask tentatively, not so sure I want to hear the answer.

  “Have I what?”

  I gather my courage and lift my eyes to find him watching me. “Moved on from me?”

  “Funny thing about that,” he says softly. “Seems I found myself canceling on her, and seconds later I was knocking on your door.”

  “Probably because you were annoyed with me,” I say, just a tad grumpily.

  “Probably,” he repli
es with a slight smile. Then he adds huskily, “I may have misled you about something.”

  “Hmm?” I say, still basking in the warmth of his closeness.

  “When I kissed you the other day”—his fingers spread wide over my back, coaxing me even closer—“that wasn’t a mistake. Not even fucking close. Or if it was, it’s one I intend to make all over again.”

  I’m anticipating the kiss, so the touch of his lips to mine shouldn’t be a shock, but the way the warm pleasure consumes my entire body, lips to toes, is a bit unexpected. Maybe even a bit scary, given how much I’ve been wanting this moment.

  Wanting him to want me.

  Andrew tilts his head, nudging my lips open with his, and I sigh in pleasure as he deepens the kiss.

  If the kiss on the sidewalk was the culmination of sexual frustration, this feels like the culmination of something more important, even though I’m not sure I have a name for it.

  I give myself over to the kiss, lifting my hands to his face, loving the slight scratch of his five o’clock shadow against my palm, the silky waves of his hair between my fingers.

  He continues to hold my head still as he explores my mouth, the kiss slow, thorough, and completely him.

  His other hand is everywhere, drifting restlessly over my back, butt, hips…

  He slides his hand up my side, and we both gasp as the heel of his palm brushes the outside of my breast. Since I was planning on staying home and watching TV, I’m not wearing a bra.

  Andrew pulls back, gazing down at me. We’re both breathing hard, and he looks as unbalanced as I feel at how quickly we went from simple kiss to blistering want.

  He lifts his hands so that my face is framed in both palms. “Georgiana—”

  Terrified that he’s about to say something logical that will make all the kissing stop, I go on my toes and press my lips to his.

  “Please don’t put some sort of esquire spin on this,” I whisper against his mouth.

  He lets out a quiet laugh, pulling back just slightly. “Esquire’s not an adjective.”

  “Sure it is,” I say, trailing my lips over his jawline, since it’s all I can reach. “Synonym: stodgy. Definition: prone to overthinking.”

  Andrew slides his hands from my face down my shoulders to my hips, where his fingers curl possessively over my butt. “Stodgy, huh?”