Page 84 of The Bet
A waiter comes by with water, pours for each of us. Thomas’s hands are steady, fingers laced together on the table, the pinkie of his left hand just barely tapping the wood every few seconds. I watch it. I want to reach across and hold that hand, but I don’t. I sit back, as far as the booth will let me, and stare at the candle between us without seeing a word.
Finally, he speaks. “You’re early.”
His voice is lower than I remember, rough at the edges.
I make myself meet his gaze. “You’re earlier.”
A smile ghosts over his mouth, not quite making it to the surface.
He says, “Thank you for meeting me.”
I try for a smile. “Sure.” My tongue feels three sizes too big for my mouth. I should say something—anything—but the words have gone somewhere else, and I can’t fetch them back.
He senses it, of course. Thomas always senses everything. He leans forward, hands still folded, and says, “I can tell this is awkward for both of us, so I’ll get right to it.” No small talk. No preamble. “I’ve missed you, Andie, and I’d like to try again. If you’re willing.”
My heart stutters. I stare at the water glass, watching the bubbles climb to the top.
He waits, silent, and then adds: “I’ve had some time to think. I won’t say I’ve come to a perfect conclusion, but…” He pauses, grimaces. “I can’t do this life without you. It doesn’t work.”
I look up, and the force of his gaze nearly pins me. For a second, all the hurt and the humiliation and the weird, awful longing of the last month comes rushing up—how nothing’s tasted right since I last saw him, how every writing prompt at the workshop turned into a slow bleed, how I’ve stopped even pretending to be present when people talk to me. I want to say yes to his request, right now, and throw myself into his arms, but I don’t because I need to hear more.
“Okay,” I say in a slow tone. “But what caused this about-face? I mean, one moment, I was being asked to leave your apartment for the second time, and now, you’re saying that you can’t live without me?”
Thomas clears his throat. “It’s a series of realizations, and a series of fractional changes. I know I’m older. And I know I’m behind on the times—by a lot. The world moves faster than I do, Andie.” He sits back, letting the words settle between us.“But I don’t want to make you miserable. I don’t want to be that guy who tries to control you, or judge you, or turn you into something you’re not.”
I find my voice. “You’re not that guy.”
His lips twitch, like he almost wants to believe it. “You say that, but it’s obvious I’m not as adaptable as I’d hoped.” He gestures around, at the dimness, at the world.
I pause.
“Okay, but explain it to me. What about you isn’t adaptable?”
Thomas pauses and clears his throat, blue eyes dark.
“Apparently, people record themselves now, all the time. While having sex. I was honestly shocked by how many sex tapes are just floating out there—sometimes even on purpose.” He looks at me, eyes softening. “Did you know there’s an entire TikTok about ‘accidentally’ filming your boyfriend, just to see how he looks in bed? And then there’s the Mormon MomTok drama, and—” He shakes his head, exasperated. “Never mind. I’m making it worse.”
I almost laugh. Instead, I reach for the edge of the table, my fingers close to his but not touching. “You don’t have to—” I start, then stop. “Thomas, you don’t have to compare yourself to some random clickbait influencer. I’m the one who recorded you without your permission. It was my mistake, not yours.”
He’s silent for a beat, then two. He picks up his glass, turns it between his hands. The blue light from the window outside pools in the base, catching and refracting so it looks like he’s holding a tiny world in his fist.
He says, “I know. But I also know you’re not the only one with secrets.”
I freeze, the cold working its way up from my fingertips. I wait, not daring to breathe.
Thomas reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out his phone. He unlocks it—six digits, fast and practiced—and slides it across the table, the screen up. The display is split, nine little squares in a grid. Each one is a live feed from a different room, all identical in palette: pale marble, chrome fixtures, walls so white they look blue in the night. My brain stutters, then fills in the blanks.
It’s his penthouse. Each camera is a different angle—living room, kitchen, bedroom, the little alcove off the foyer, even the master bath. In one, Mrs. Olsen moves through the kitchen, wiping down a counter. In another, the curtains are drawn tight, but the room is still visible, the faint shape of a bed in the gloom.
I stare, then glance up at Thomas. He watches me, jaw working.
His voice, when it comes, is so even I almost miss the strain under it. “The building requires a security feed for its insurance. My personal insurer also requires a security feed. And with the art collection and everything, it’s pretty standard, honestly. If something ever goes missing or is vandalized, we’ll have footage from months past. It’s not even reviewed unless there’s an incident.”
My mouth is dry. “So?—”
He meets my eyes, holds them. “So, yes. Every time you were there, there’s footage. Maybe not high-def, maybe not even clear, but it’s there. I should have told you. I should have thought to check. I didn’t.”
For a second, I can’t process it. My mind cycles through every moment in those rooms—every time I lay on the rug, or cooked in the kitchen, or fell asleep on the couch with him next to me. Every time we touched, or kissed, or made love with the lights on, with the windows open. I want to be angry, but I just feel hollow. Mostly, I feel stunned.
