Page 55 of The Bet
“That’s really sweet of your dad,” I say again, softer this time, and Stella smiles like it’s the first time anyone’s ever told her that.
I put the tape down, dust my hands, and look out at the bright, busy hallway. I could be anyone, right now. I could be Stella’s friend, or her rival, or just some girl with a box full of mugs and nothing to hide.
My phone is still face-down on the desk. I flip it over, just for something to do.
No messages, but I feel a little better.
A little more ready for whatever comes next.
The first signthat Thomas has arrived is the way the hallway suddenly narrows, as if the building itself is reacting to a change in pressure. He’s taller than most of the girls’ dads who’ve been wandering in and out all day—tall enough that the exit signs look like they’re aimed at him specifically, tall enough that he has to duck just slightly coming through the fire door at the end of the hall. No suit, no tie. Just dark jeans and a grey T-shirt that fits him like the factory made it to order, every line of his chest and shoulders sharp as an engineering diagram.
I’m mid-stride, box balanced on my hip, when I spot him at the far end. There’s a brief, weightless moment where my body forgets how to move. Heart stops, then starts again, thudding into my throat. I shift the box to my other arm and keep walking, eyes fixed on the rectangle of sunlit floor just past his feet.
He sees me, of course. He sees everything. But his expression doesn’t change, not even a flicker of surprise. He just lets his gaze slip over me—up, down, and back up again—before shifting it to Stella, who’s waiting by the elevator with her own box and a look of exaggerated impatience.
“Dad!” she calls, her voice echoing off the cinderblock walls. She sounds six years old, and then suddenly much older, all in the space of a syllable. Oh my god, does she remember that I hooked up with her dad? Maybe it was only anal, and six months ago, but still. Yet Stella seems to remember nothing, bobbling on her toes with excitement.
Meanwhile, Thomas raises one hand in a lazy salute. “I hear you need a muscleman,” he says, loud enough for the girls clustered at the water fountain to turn and stare. A couple of them gasp with appreciation; one of them whispers “zaddy,” not bothering to keep it quiet.
Thomas grins at Stella, not at the audience. He sets a hand on her shoulder, squeezes it just once. “Where do you want me?”
She beams, a pure, unfiltered sunlight. “We’re taking everything to the loading dock. The blue bins are for books, the white ones are for dishes and glass, and everything else goes in boxes. Andie, you want to show him where we’re putting stuff?”
I blink. “Sure,” I say, my voice thinner than I want it to be. Stella definitely doesn’t remember. She’s too caught up in the excitement of the day.
He falls into step beside me, leaving his daughter at the elevator with her phone already out, thumb skimming the screen. For a moment, it’s just the two of us in the short stretch of hallwayleading to the stairwell, the carpet worn thin and blotched with something sticky from last week’s pizza party.
He doesn’t say anything at first. He just matches my pace, hands empty, waiting for me to make the next move.
I point at the stairwell door with my chin. “Down one, then to the left.”
“Got it,” he says, and his voice is soft, private. For me.
I shift the box higher on my hip, trying to act normal. Trying not to look at the way his arm flexes when he holds the door for me, or the way his smell—clean, and a little like rain—rushes past as I step ahead.
In the stairwell, the air is ten degrees cooler, and it smells like dust and floor wax. There’s a hum from the lights above, and every sound is amplified: the thump of our shoes, the creak of the door, the hollow echo of my own breath.
I start down the steps, box first, feeling him close behind. On the landing, I pause, pretending to rest, and let my eyes flick up to his face.
He’s watching me. His mouth tilts up at one corner, barely there.
“You look tired,” he says, but it’s not a question.
“I haven’t been sleeping much,” I say, and the line lands between us with a weight only we understand.
He lets it sit, then reaches for the box. “Here, let me.”
Our fingers brush, just a graze, but it lights up every nerve in my arm. I hand over the box, and he lifts it like it’s made of feathers. His hand almost touches my waist, but stops just short.
He grins, quiet, then says, “Which bin is this?”
“White,” I say, but my voice is barely a whisper.
He nods and starts down the stairs. I follow, watching the way his shoulders roll with every step, the way he doesn’t even have to try to fill the space.
At the bottom, the lobby is a mess of girls and luggage. Stella’s already there, bossing a pair of freshmen into stacking bins by the window. She’s in her element, clipboard in hand, calling out names and room numbers with the authority of a small-town mayor.
Thomas sets my box on top of the stack, then turns to me. “Anything fragile?”
