The next morning I’m washing the pizza-stained blankets and tidying up when I spot a small notebook tucked under the corner of my bed. I pick it up and flip it open. The creamy pages are filled with bubbly figures. Some in dresses, others in flared pants. Several of the pics feature a small girl with long hair and a large man with wavy hair, doing various activities: biking, sledding, reading. The words Dad and Addie written on many pages. I close the book and put it in my purse to remind myself to give it back to Will when he texts.
Thx for last night. Addie says she had a blast.
I assume he’s just being polite, but instead of making me feel better, it makes me feel worse. I don’t respond. Instead, I shove my phone in my purse, abandon my half-finished cleaning job, and head outside to clear my head.
A few hours later, I’m coming out of a boutique I borrow clothes from in exchange for posts when I nearly smack into someone running along the sidewalk. He swerves, we meet eyes and I realize it’s Thom from the coffee shop. He’s wearing running tights and a tank top, ears plugged with AirPods. “Kit, Kit, Kit!” He pulls me in for a sweaty hug, his long hair swinging forward to brush my shoulders. “I’ve been thinking about you,” he says. When he sees the surprised look on my face, he laughs. “Not like that. I get that we weren’t on the same page. I mean, you just popped into my head and I wondered if you had tackled that big project you mentioned. The one you wouldn’t actually tell me about? How’s that going?”
I feel disappointed in myself. “Oh, um…I guess, it’s not, really. Work’s just crazy…” The thing is, when won’t work be crazy, if I continue to take on as much as I keep taking on? Why am I unable to say no to things that don’t matter to me, instead of saying yes to something that does?
But I know why. If Mom were here, she’d be pushing me, or encouraging me, or guiding me. And without her, I’m not sure I’ll ever truly be able to tackle it alone. Not that I’m about to share all that with Thom. “How about you?” I keep my voice light, detached.
He claps his hands together and beams even more broadly. “You won’t believe it. Remember that crazy idea I had, to host a massive swap of all that stuff we all have? At City Hall?” I nod, remembering that one of the millions of ideas he regaled me with on our date was to bring people and their used items together, for a community swap, rather than filling our landfills with unwanted stuff. “Well, I’m doing it.”
“Wow, that’s great,” I say, a bit amazed. It’s only been a few weeks since Thom and I had that date.
“It is great. It felt like this massive thing that would take so much planning, but I realized, don’t let the perfect be the enemy of the good”—he claps his hands, louder this time—“just do it. So it’s happening—two Saturdays from now. Check it out if you’re free. I’m calling it the Be Free Swap. We’re all going to be free of our stuff, all that stuff that’s weighing us down, burying us. Anyway, I’m pumped, dude. It reminded me that doing good doesn’t have to be hard. Anyway, I gotta jet. Give me a call if you wanna hang sometime.” He bounds down the street. I watch him go, envy bubbling within me.
I call Feloise and ask her if she’ll meet me for a drink. She does, and I’m grateful she always makes me a priority. Half an hour later, we’re sitting at the wine bar inside Eataly, sipping rosé. “You know I know you work hard for me,” I start.
“You’re damn right I do.”
“And a huge part of the reason I started working with you was because you were known as the speaking agent. The one everyone wants. And you’ve been incredible. I mean, the access you’ve given me to inspire women and help them pursue their passion…”
“Are you firing me?” Feloise slams her hand on the table and I immediately put my hand overtop of hers.
“No. Not at all. Can I go on?”
She nods. I take a sip of wine and continue. “You know I love the speaking engagements, and my groups and the conventions. But it feels like lately, my time has been pretty heavily skewed toward the social media stuff. And some of it isn’t even really related to my platform. So I was thinking, what if we scale back on that stuff, which would give me more time to work on some other projects I’ve been considering—”
“What projects?” she barks. “If you have other projects, you need to tell me what they are. How can I represent you if I don’t know what you’re working on? And I’ve told you before, if you’re thinking about another project, it should be a book proposal. The publisher keeps asking me if you have anything in the works. Now’s the time—”
I sigh. “Feloise, I don’t want to talk about another book. And can you please calm down for a second,” I say.
She closes her eyes, clasps her hands together, then a moment later, opens her eyes and nods. “Go on.”
“These projects have nothing to do with you,” I say. “No offense. But I have this idea for a business I want to run out of a garage—”
“What business? What garage?”
“Well, I don’t have the garage yet because I barely have time to even house hunt. I used to be able to schedule my time—to know when I had an event or interview or book signing, but now it feels like all of my unscheduled time is eaten up by social media, because these posts are taking more and more of my time and—”
“Kit,” Feloise interrupts. Once she has my attention, she takes a slow sip of her wine, then places the glass on the table and leans toward me. “The reason I book you for so many social campaigns is because social campaigns are where the money is. And why would we say no when we can say yes?”
I realize that this conversation is pointless. If I want to stop doing so much social media and focus on my business idea for a book garage I need to do it, and let Feloise know after the fact. Thankfully, Feloise checks her phone and tells me she’s got to run. I pay the bill, we say goodbye, and I walk home, Thom’s questions and Feloise’s objections crowding my headspace.
“You could at least say no,” a voice barks and I jump, then turn to see a lineup of women standing against a brick wall, smoking. One of them is glaring at me, and I realize she must have asked me something, but I have no idea what.
“Sorry?” I say, noticing the women’s shelter for the first time, even though I’ve walked this area a thousand times.
“Forget it,” she spits.
I turn and continue walking, feeling out of sorts.
“Feloise says we need to host a dinner party,” I tell Will a few days later after getting off the phone with Feloise. It’s like nothing I said to her sank in. Hosting a dinner party is rivalling the island picnic in terms of time commitment, and yet, in some other universe where Will doesn’t have a daughter, the idea of co-hosting a dinner party with him fills me with wistfulness. “We could use the party room at my place. There’s a full kitchen.” I’m thinking about which friends I could invite who wouldn’t completely see through my act and know I have a schoolgirl crush on Will, but Will’s already suggesting his place for the dinner.
“We have a family dinner the last Friday of every month and it’s my turn to host. Timing’s perfect. You can meet Margot and Ari.”
“Margot? Oh right, Aunt Margot. I already met her, remember? When I failed so spectacularly at taking care of your daughter.” My voice is light, but the words are heavy.
“Oh come on. Addie’s known Margot her whole life. And I should’ve really emphasized that Addie had to go to sleep early. Especially since she was in a strange place. Like, there’s not much even I can do to reason with her when she gets too tired. You’ve just basically got to get her to sleep. Anyway, Margot’s not that bad. I promise.”
“Fine,” I concede. “Your place it is.”
Will’s place is in Seaton Village, a row house with painted black brick and a red door and as I walk up the stone path, the sound of kids screaming nearly makes me stop and turn around to leave. I just assumed because I said “dinner party” that Will would realize I meant adults-only. I knock loudly, but when no one answers I turn the knob and push the door open a bit. There have to be at least a dozen kids running around, screaming. I stand, paralyzed, on the mat and take a deep breath. OK, so on closer count it looks like there’s only five kids, and one of them is Addie, who’s spotted me and is skipping toward me. “Kit!” she says, and flings her arms around me and I feel relieved that she doesn’t seem to feel any differently toward me since my failed attempt at babysitting her.
“You forgot this at my place,” I say, pulling her notebook out of my purse and handing it to her as another kid slams into me. “Geez,” I say, but he’s already halfway up the stairs, totally oblivious. “I noticed it was full, and I thought you might want a new one. I love notebooks and pens, so I always have too many.” I hand her the second notebook, this one with flowers on the cover, and a pack of sparkly pens.
“Wow, thanks,” she says, giving me a hug. She heads into the kitchen to show Will, who looks down the hall, wiping his hands on a towel as he walks toward me. Despite the noise, his house feels warm and cozy, with worn couches and throws, and the walls are covered in a mix of what is likely Addie’s hand-drawn art and framed photographs—mostly pics of him and Addie. It has a relaxed vibe, but the constant screaming from the hordes of children is a bit unnerving. Will hollers at the kids to go to the basement but everyone ignores him. My head is pounding but Will just laughs and shrugs, then leans in to kiss me on the cheek, and for that split second, my skin tingles. “Welcome to a typical MacGregor dinner party,” he says. “Where we’re just one tent short of a circus.”
I know my expression is pained, which I hope gets across the point that I am not OK with the situation. “Please tell me you hired Mary Poppins and she’ll be here any minute to whisk all the children away?” I hand him a bottle of wine.
He laughs, as though he’s enjoying this chaos. “Can I get you a glass?” he asks. “You’re probably gonna need it.”
I raise my eyebrows. “You’ve seen me cook. Wine’s not going to help my skills.” And yet, there’s nothing I want more right now than a glass of wine, to calm my shattered nerves.
“True, but it’ll help your sanity. It’s either that or noise-cancelling headphones, and then how will you hear me barking instructions at you?” Will walks toward the kitchen, but I spot an interesting book on the shelf in his living room and pause to briefly glance at it, then follow him, gingerly stepping to avoid the dozens of toys scattered on the hardwood floor. Will introduces me to his sister-in-law, Margot, and her husband, Ari, who are sitting at the bar. Margot smiles wanly at me, her eyes narrow, like a hyena. Like I’m prey. “We’ve met,” Margot says, sticking out a limp hand.
I grip it a bit too tightly and smile brighter. “We have. Nice to see you again, Margot.” Ari gives a boisterous laugh. “You’re quite brave coming over here. I’m afraid—and I own eighty percent of the rug rats in this place.”
“Ari actually owns your building, too,” Will says. “Kit’s the woman I was telling you about.”
“Ah yes,” Ari nods, and asks me if I like the building. I tell him I do and Will hands me a plastic glass of wine. People are going to look at my Instagram pic and wonder why I’m drinking out of plastic when at an indoor dinner. But I don’t say anything. Instead, I take a sip and remind myself to stop being such a snob.
I exhale. “So where do you two live?” I ask, trying to make conversation, but it’s so loud I have to repeat myself to be heard.
“Just outside of the city,” Margot says. “Lots of space for the children to run around and play. The way kids are meant to grow up.” She gives Will a look. “I keep trying to convince Will to move closer. So Addie can be near her cousins. Hint, hint, my love.”
“Not a chance,” says Will. “I love this neighborhood.”
“You know, I’ve almost convinced Gillian on moving out near us.” She looks at me. “Have you met Gillian? She and Will are…” She tilts her head from side to side.
“Friends,” Will says, looking uncomfortable. “With daughters who’ve been best friends since birth.”
“Right.” Margot rolls her eyes. “Gillian’s my oldest, dearest friend. It just makes so much sense for all of us to live closer to each other. But Will just doesn’t want to leave this house. It’s the home he and Sophie bought together. It’s sentimental.”
Sophie. Somehow, hearing her name makes her feel so much more real. I want to know more about her, and nothing at all.
“You know that’s not the only reason,” Will says.
“Oh, right,” Margot says tersely. “It’s because you’re sowing your wild oats before you settle down again and that’s much easier to do downtown than in the ’burbs.” Sowing his wild oats? Who says that? But is this true? I suppose I did have sex with Will in a hotel—even if he was only there for work. But I just assumed maybe, possibly, he was so mesmerized by my charm that it was a one-time thing, not a regular occurrence.
“Margot,” Ari says, putting a hand on Margot’s. Margot reaches for her wine glass and swallows a generous mouthful.
Instead of defending himself, though, Will ignores Margot and looks at the children in the other room, asking one of the boys about the video game he’s playing. Suddenly, it doesn’t feel loud enough in here. I take a deep breath and look around. Could I just get up and leave? I didn’t sign up for this. And yet, just glancing back at Will makes me want to stay. Then Ari claps his hands together. “So Kit, tell us more about this dinner we’re having. I’m quite intrigued by this whole food kit delivery thing. It’s certainly a booming business, isn’t it?”
My emotions feel so jumbled right now that I can barely think straight, but I rattle off a bunch of random details about Fresh Food Fast, trying to find the confidence I always seem to muster when I’m in work mode. Ari nods enthusiastically until Will puts a hand on my back and I turn to him, wrapping up whatever I was rambling on about.
“Let’s get to it,” Will says as two boys, about five or six, race through the kitchen, knocking a full glass—plastic!—of wine onto the floor. I might as well ask for a serving of crow for dinner. “Boys! Outside!” Will excuses himself to finally herd all the kids into the backyard, leaving me alone with Ari and Margot. I grip my glass of wine and prepare for the worst.
“Did you know this house was one of Ari’s very first sales?” Margot asks me.
How on earth would I know that? I shake my head.
“Sophie and Will were just married and pregnant with Addie. They were looking for a starter home, a two-bedroom, maybe even a large condo, but it was a good time to buy, back before the market got outrageous, and Ari just knew most people would get priced out of the market within five to ten years. So he convinced them to get this place. They knew they were going to have a ton of kids so it just made sense to get the bigger house so they could settle in…” Margot empties her glass and reaches for the bottle. I imagine Sophie—young, pregnant and in love. And likely a less bitchy version of Margot.
“That is why Will doesn’t want to move. Too many memories of Sophie,” Margot continues. “He’s still holding on to the hope that he’ll get his large family and fill this house.” Her words hang in the air between us. Of course. Just because his wife died doesn’t mean that Will’s done building a family. He’s in that transitional period—dating until he finds the one. Maybe not someone to replace Sophie, but to be second best. To be a stepmother to Addie, and mother to more children. I feel silly for not realizing this sooner—not that it makes any difference anyway. He has a plan, I have a plan, and just like with Eric, our plans don’t line up.
Will returns and we begin preparing the meal. As I pour the arborio rice into the pan, Margot tells us how Sophie just loved risotto.
“Remember Sophie’s risotto, Will?”
“I do,” Will says politely, then he grabs my camera and snaps a pic of me stirring the risotto in the pan. While I continue to stir rice, Will rubs a mix of spices on a pork tenderloin, then sears it in a frying pan. After popping the pan into the oven—you can do that?—he grabs an armful of plates and begins setting the table. And I realize that he’s setting it for nine—me and Will, Margot and Ari, and all the kids.
“We should really feed the kids first,” I say. “Fresh Food Fast has never wanted kids in my pics. I really think they wanted a nice, calm, adult dinner party.”
I can feel Margot’s eyes on us. “But there are only four of us,” she says. “That’s not much of a dinner party. And we always eat with the children. We’re a family.”
Will runs his hand through his hair. “Kit’s right,” he says. “The client never mentioned kids. Though these boxes are great if you have kids. Maybe we should suggest it.” He catches my eye, though, and gets it. Laughing, he says, “OK, let’s not pitch that angle this minute. If you make the salad I’ll make the kids pizza.”
“Pizza!” one of the kids screams, running through the kitchen, swinging a lightsaber. I duck and it barely misses me, but sends another glass flying. The plastic bounces off the ground. Will mops up the spilled liquid and then tosses the damp cloth into the sink.
Once I’ve mixed all the salad ingredients into a large bowl, I walk back to the front door to grab my ring light and tripod. There’s a big part of me that wants to just scrap this whole shoot, and yet, as I watch Will through the lens of my camera, I can almost forget for a moment that there’s anyone else here. I take another sip of wine and let Margot and Ari dominate the conversation as I start cooking.
Will works beside me, asking me about my week and telling me about a lunch ’n’ learn he catered in the financial district today. “They wanted an old-school brown-bag lunch,” he says, grating cheese over the pizzas, “so I suggested a twist on PB&J sandwiches but with homemade cashew nut butter and a raspberry coulis. Some of my finest work, but I got up at three this morning to get them done. I’m bagged.” I laugh. And he elbows me. “I can always win you over with a good pun.”
I want to ask him who organized the event, to tell him this is exactly the kind of event I want to be speaking at, empowering women to set their goals and achieve them. But instead, I give the risotto a few final stirs as it looks like it’s done, as he pops the pizzas in the oven. Addie comes through the kitchen, eyes the pizza in Will’s hand and then turns to me. “Told you he always puts broccoli on the pizza.”
“What?” Will says as we laugh. He pulls the tenderloin out of the oven and tells me it needs to rest for a few minutes before he slices it, but that I can begin plating the rest of the meal.
“You want me to take some pics for you?” Addie asks, looking up at me in such an unfamiliar, adoring way, that I can’t say no. Margot and Ari have moved into the living room and are sitting on the couch.
“That’d be great,” I say, and she grabs my camera from the tripod, climbs up on a stool, and begins shooting as I artfully arrange the vegetables on the four plates. Will herds all the other kids into the backyard for what feels like the seven hundredth time, telling them he’ll bring the pizzas out in three minutes, and Addie hands my camera back to me. I check the pics she’s taken and realize that she must have knocked the shutter speed by accident, because all the pictures are blurry. I let out a frustrated groan and quickly get a few more shots of the food at the table while Will takes the pizzas outside. Then I set the camera back on the tripod to film a time lapse while we’re eating.
“You look like you need this,” Will says, grabbing an open bottle of wine off the counter. As he tops up my wine glass, his hand on my back, I realize I didn’t put out real wine glasses to shoot the table setting. Margot and Ari sit on one side of the table and I sit across from Ari on the other, and put my cloth napkin on my lap. Will’s just sitting down when the back door opens and two of the boys come flying through the house, naked. “Avid’s stuck in the tree!” one of them hollers.
“Why are you naked?” Ari asks with interest, though he doesn’t seem that disturbed.
“We didn’t want to wear clothes!” one of them screams, flailing his arms and knocking my tripod over, my camera smashing to the ground. I let out a scream and leap up, racing over to my camera as Will comes after me.
“Is it broken?”
“I don’t know!” I yell at him, unlocking the camera from the tripod and inspecting it. It seems fine—thankfully.
Another kid rushes past us and into the living room. I wipe pizza sauce off my arm and stand.
“I’ll handle this,” Ari says, finally standing and placing his napkin on the table. “Start without me.”
Will puts his arm around me and leads me back to the table, though spending any more time here, at this dinner, is the last thing I want to do. My chest feels tight, and it’s hard to get a full breath. I’ve wasted more than two hours here now, I don’t have anything to show for it, I’m starving and frustrated. And all I want is to be at home, in my quiet, calm, clean apartment, by myself. “I’ve got to go,” I say. Will turns me toward him.
“Hey, hey, hey.” He pulls me close.
“It’s too much,” I say, shaking my head, but he holds me even tighter. I let him, even though it’s completely breaking our façade of only being colleagues.
“I know, it’s nuts. But, it’s also kind of fun, in a crazy way, don’t you think?”
I pull away and look at him. “Are you crazy?”
He laughs and pulls out my chair. “C’mon.” He refills my wine glass and then his own, and raises it up as Margot studies us. “Here’s to crazy dinner parties.”
I don’t even bother forcing a smile. I take a sip of wine, then focus on my plate, trying to figure out how much longer I need to be here. This isn’t worth it. There’s absolutely no way I need to be here, in this chaos, just for a few pictures of a dinner party. If I had hosted the dinner, it would’ve been calm, fun even. This is cold, hostile. A nightmare. “Dinner looks really good,” Will says to me, putting a hand on my leg. His touch is electrifying but also somehow calming. I inhale, taking in Will’s signature sandalwood scent that sends tingles all over my body. This feeling I get when I’m around him is the reason I’m still here. He’s why I’m still here. Damn you, Will MacGregor.
“What do you think?” Will’s saying to Margot. She takes a small bite of the risotto, as though I might be poisoning her, and then rinses it down with water. “Mmm,” she says, disingenuously. “I think it might be overdone. But, it’s all about the photos anyway, right?”
Ari rejoins us, assuring us that the children are now fully clothed. “More importantly, they’re locked outside.” I laugh, because his words somehow endear him to me, as though I’m not the only one who thinks this whole night feels like a shitshow. Maybe it’s not usual? He sits down and digs into his risotto, then turns to me. “Kit, this is excellent.”
I smile, feeling grateful, if even for a moment.
Throughout the entire dinner, though, Margot is determined to show me that I don’t fit in. It’s Sophie this and Sophie that, the importance of family and keeping the cousins close. When she brings up a family reunion where “significant others” are not welcome, it’s enough to make me want to get up and go. She’s trying so hard to make sure I know that I will never have a shot with Will—as though she knows there’s something between us, even though it’s not as though we’re broadcasting it. Which shouldn’t bother me. I’ve already told myself that a thousand times, anyway—that things will never work out with Will, long-term—and yet I still feel offended and annoyed by her. I have to remind myself that Will isn’t a competition to win. But this dinner feels like one. Sure, this is their family dinner, but Will invited me, and this is my work, and I’m not going to leave and let Margot feel like she trod all over me when I have done absolutely nothing to deserve it. When everyone is finally done eating, I silently help clean up, though I’m expecting Margot to tell me how great Sophie was at loading a dishwasher. When the table’s cleared, I tell Will I’m going to go.
“You don’t have to,” he says. “I like having you here.”
“It’s all…a bit much,” I admit quietly.
His face clouds over and he nods. “Yeah, I would leave too, if I could,” he jokes, and walks me to the door. But I get the sense he actually loves the chaos of it all. And I can’t decide if it’s completely off-putting, or charming.
“Listen, don’t worry about Margot. She gets better with time. Like red wine. Or a pain in the neck. You get used to her.”
“I heard that,” Margot says, coming to the door.
“You were meant to,” Will says. He turns back to me. “Send me the pics from tonight—I want to see how they turned out. Margot, you should follow Kit on Instagram. Kit, you could tag Margot. Maybe she can share your account with some of her friends. Not that you need it or anything. Kit’s a big deal on Instagram,” he says, smiling. Almost proudly. “I wouldn’t know, but that’s what I hear.” Margot looks from him to me, her hyena eyes boring into mine.
“Yes, I know,” she says slowly, and the next part happens in slow motion. “I already follow Kit on Instagram. That’s why I thought it was so fascinating that she would agree to a dinner party with children.” She turns to Will. “Her handle is @KitwithoutKids. The woman who brainwashes other women into not having children. Because having kids is—how would you put it, exactly?” She turns back to me, her eyes cold. “A death sentence? Or just, a huge waste of time when you could be…I don’t know, sitting on a pristine white couch or, posting another selfie to Instagram, I guess?”
Hearing her describe me in this way is awful, and yet, it’s true. When did I become this superficial woman who’s seen as a shallow influencer rather than a supporter of independent women? I reach for the door handle, and without waiting for Will’s reaction, I pull the door open and rush out. Down the steps, onto the sidewalk, down the street. Away from Will, away from them all. Into the cool, dark night.
I expect Will to cancel on our next cooking session, to come up with some excuse why he can’t finish out the Fresh Food Fast contract, but he shows up, as planned, the following Friday. We haven’t spoken all week. Not even a text. I’m not surprised by the lack of communication, per se, but given that we haven’t spoken, I just assumed he wouldn’t show. But as usual, he’s got his box of tools, though he looks unkempt, his hair messy, his face unshaven. “Rough night?” I say, trying to break the ice.
“Addie had a nightmare. I’ve been up since four.”
“Is she OK?”
“She’s fine. Let’s just cut the chitchat and get this over with. OK?”
My hands shaking, I fumble with the lid on the food box, then begin unpacking the items onto the counter.
“I don’t get it,” he finally says, slamming a frying pan on the stove. “Why deliberately lead me on?”
“I never led you on,” I say. “We had sex once. And once I found out you had a kid, I made sure we didn’t hook up again. I told you I wasn’t interested.”
“You sure did,” Will says bitterly, fiddling with a pair of tongs. “Coming to dinner with my sister-in-law and brother-in-law? I was really acting like you were just a co-worker.”
“How you act is not my problem, and how do I know what you deem friendly versus sexual? It’s not like we were making out. You didn’t even kiss me.”
“Oh, come on. You know I’m into you.” A warm rush fills my body. I want him to say more, and yet, I need to shut this down. I know I’ve been misleading him. But I don’t want to admit it.
“You know, I don’t keep my career a secret. I’m an Instagram influencer. You know that. You could’ve gone on Instagram and known in five seconds flat what I’m all about. Or Google—ever heard of it? The book, the articles, the groups I’ve started, the talks I’ve given…It’s all out there for everyone to see. I’m not hiding who I am.”
Will turns to me. “You know I hate relying on what’s written online. I told you that.”
“That’s your issue, not mine.”
“Right. But you just happened to never bring it up, what you do, what you stand for, not once, in conversation.” His eyes are slits and my stomach turns. I hate that he’s so angry with me, and I hate that I even care what he thinks.
I shake my head, exasperated. “OK, did you want me to explain it to you on the picnic? In front of the photographer you brought along? Or, would you have rather that I brought it up at dinner, while your sister-in-law had her four kids running around like wild animals?” I angrily open the instructions.
“Oh gimme a break. You had a hundred opportunities to tell me.”
“Still, it was irrelevant. We’re working together. Nothing more.”
“Yeah. You’ve made that very clear.”
“Great. So let’s just get this over with.”
“Fine.”
“Fine.” I grab a knife and dive into a potato. But the potato is wet, the knife slips, and slices through my finger. I scream and Will springs toward the oven, grabbing the tea towel that’s hanging from the door and wrapping it around my finger.
“Let me see it,” Will says but I shake my head, tears streaming down my face.
“No, just get away from me,” I say, sinking to the floor. But he catches me on the way down, wrapping me in his arms. I’m crying, and I can’t stop myself even though I don’t want to be crying in front of him. “Let me look at it, OK?” he says after a minute and holds my hand, unwrapping the towel, just a bit. “I think it’s going to be OK. We’re not going to have to amputate, which is great because I can’t slice a finger off worth shit.”
I laugh through my tears and pound his chest with my good hand. “You’re such a jerk. I’m in pain and you’re making jokes?”
“Uh-huh. Do you have any bandages?”
I tell him to look under the sink in the bathroom and he disappears for a minute before returning with a box. He removes the towel again and wraps my finger with gauze, then secures it with tape. “There, that should do it.”
I look at my finger, then up at him. His eyes are on mine. “Thanks,” I say softly, and he brushes the tears from my cheek, his hand lingering just a little too long. Then, his eyes still locked with mine, he takes my bandaged hand in his and brings it to his lips. My stomach flip-flops. I start to shake my head, but he’s kissing my palm, and then working his way with his lips, to my wrist, and up my arm.
“Will…we can’t do this. I—” I like you too much, I think.
“You can’t deny the chemistry between us,” he says, but I pull my arm away from him, standing.
“You have to go,” I say as he stands. “This”—I gesture to the space between us—“is never going to be anything. And I don’t think we should work together, either.”
He nods. “You’re right.”
He walks toward the door. His things are everywhere, but I grab his bag from the floor beside the counter and make my way toward him. “Here,” I say—
—“My bag,” he says at the same time, turning around so that he’s just inches from me. My entire body feels like it’s on fire. I know I should take a step back, but instead, I take a step closer to him. He smells like sandalwood, and I know that I shouldn’t do what I know I’m about to do, but there’s just something about being close to Will that makes me feel so good. I stand on my tiptoes, and then, closing my eyes, I press my lips onto his. He kisses me back, wrapping his arms around my waist. I drop his bag and lean into him, and then lead him to my bedroom.