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"No need to be shy, Jules. Imagine how much fun we'd have if you let me in next time."
EIGHTEEN
JULIANA
I've become a mole rat.
Under the hood of my sweatshirt, my fingers dance along my keyboard, accompanied by the deafening silence streaming through a pair of headphones. With every light flipped off, save for my monitors, I sit in total darkness, surrounded by walls of drawn curtains, as if someone on the street or inside a neighboring skyscraper with a set of binoculars might see what marks my cheeks. What's been there for the past five days.
Shame.
All-consuming, inescapable shame.
Which no doubt swirls in my own eyes, too. Not that anyone's seen them, either, including myself. I've avoided mirrors altogether, including those at The Caffeine Cove. Yep, I even called out of my shifts this week, said I came down with the flu, when I know damn well I'm just avoiding any and all human interaction, since what happened.
Since what he heard.
An uncomfortable wave of nausea rolls through me, prompting a debate of whether I should slither under my bed and never resurface. For a good fifteen-or-so years, at least. Tempting... very tempting, if it weren't for needing to eat.
My stomach growls, right on cue.
"Shhhh," I scold, typing a line of code.
Another rumble, louder this time. You skipped breakfast, it seems to say.
"We'll have a big lunch."
What is happening to me? Even a mole rat wouldn't talk to its own gut. This is a new low, Juliana.
A knot twists in response, squeezing a space that's achingly hollow. I grit my teeth, weathering the pain, and glance at the clock. Ten on the dot. I sigh, "Fine."
Clad in my finest attire—baggy sweatpants and an even baggier hoodie—I creep out the door, only to pick up the pace when I realize Hayden should've left for work an hour ago.
Sun blares through the windows like a glistening beacon, lighting up the kitchen in all its grandeur. Squinting, I speed by the marble island, stainless-steel appliances, and enter the walk-in pantry, which is, again, surely double the size of my old apartment. No shock there.
But there's no time to gawk.
I stand on my tippy toes, poking around in cupboards that are surprisingly well organized, searching for something quick and easy. A grab-and-go snack. Maybe a granola bar or cereal or—
"I'm not that late." Hayden's voice drifts from afar.
Shit.
I dash for the door, but he only grows louder. His tall frame turns into the kitchen, right before I switch off the pantry light, hide behind the door, and hope he doesn't notice that it's open.
"If Elias cares so much, I'll tell him to go take a hike—oh wait, he'd never leave the office."
My heart clammers against my ribs as I anticipate his entry, but when I hear the fridge open, I let loose a breath. Sneaking a peek around the door, I watch Hayden rummage through the fridge while holding a cellphone to his ear with his shoulder.
Surrounded by splendor only extreme riches can afford, he looks ready to get interviewed in some Architectural Digest video. Especially wearing that classic navy suit, which offsets the waves of his blond locks and molds to his body like a second skin.
Although, despite its tailored beauty, when he closes the fridge with something wrapped in aluminum in one hand, the other tugs at his collar, as if he's suffocated by the fabric.
"Exactly, you get it." He laughs at whatever the person on the other line said. "That's why I'm not stepping a foot into the office tomorrow. I don't care what he thinks. I'm not wasting another good Saturday, especially not one that's going to be in the nineties. He'd have to drag me by my ankles."
Unwrapping the aluminum on the center island, he reveals what appears to be a tuna melt. When he takes a bite, a chunk of tuna falls onto the foil, and I mumble a silent prayer that my stomach doesn't decide to get chatty.
"Mhmmm," he hums, chewing. "Well, he'd actually have to visit my apartment to do that. And you know how repulsed poor Elias is by large crowds, particularly ones with alcohol and fun."
