Page 85 of The Bet
I look at Thomas, and the apology is already in his eyes, raw and unguarded. I realize that this is why he called me here—not to shame me, not to call me out again, but to level the playing field. To admit he’s as guilty, or more.
A hot, thick wave rolls through me. Tears rise, sudden and sharp, and I try to blink them away, but one escapes, sliding down my cheek before I can catch it.
Thomas starts to reach for me, then stops, hands going white-knuckled on the phone. His voice cracks, just once: “I’m sorry, Andie. I should have told you from the start, but like you, I forgot. I’m so used to having the cameras on, that I forgot about them. I generally never watch the footage either. I forgot I even have the app on my phone.”
I breathe in, shaky. Then, before I can talk myself out of it, I reach across and close my hand around his. His skin is warm and dry, the hand so much bigger than mine that I could lose myself in it.
I say, “It’s okay. It’s fine. I mean, it’s not fine to record us during sex without my knowing, but I know you forgot.” The words are thick, full of tears, but true.
He lets out a long, slow breath, and the tension leaks out of him all at once. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart. I fucked up mightily. I was literally the pot calling the kettle black, accusing you ofvideotaping us when I was doing the exact same thing.” His thumb slides over the backs of my fingers, tracing the knuckles, the little bones. “But I want us to do this right, Andie. No more secrets. No more games.”
I nod, and the last of the tears fall. I don’t bother wiping them away. “No more hiding,” I say. “Ever.”
He nods, then leans in, just a little. “May I?”
I close the distance, letting him kiss me. It’s not wild, not desperate. It’s soft, slow, the kind of kiss you could build a life on. When it ends, I press my forehead to his, and we just stay like that, the world shrinking down to the size of this booth, this moment, this promise.
I’m still scared. There are still a million things we haven’t solved. But for the first time in months, I believe we might make it.
We sit there, hands clasped, while the rest of the restaurant dissolves around us. The lights stay low, and the hum of voices and clink of plates fade to a hush.
This is what it feels like to start over.
This is what forgiveness sounds like.
And this time, I won’t fuck it up.
We sit therefor a long time, not speaking. Not because we’ve run out of words, but because sometimes you just need to let the silence absorb all the old toxins. Our hands are still joined across the scratched table, and I can feel the echo of his kiss—its patience, its slow-building heat—radiating into my heart.
I want to tell him everything, all at once. I want to explain that for weeks, every time I passed a man with dark hair or smelled someone’s cologne, I half-expected to see him waiting for me at the end of the block. That every one of my dreams started with his voice, and ended with it too. I want to say that when he left me—when he slammed the door and let me walk out of his life—it felt like losing all gravity, like floating away in a city made entirely of strangers.
But I don’t. Not right now. There’s a new, careful rhythm between us, and I’m afraid to jinx it.
Thomas is the first to break the truce. He lets go of my hand—reluctantly, but definitely—and sits back, flexing his fingers like he’s just realized they’re his again. “So,” he says, his voice just above a whisper, “how do we do this?”
The question is so honest, so unguarded, that it floors me. For a second, I forget to answer. Then I laugh, and it’s an ugly, messy little sound. “I don’t know,” I admit. “I’ve never… I mean, we’ve never actually done it right before, have we?”
He shakes his head, smiling. The smile is tired, but it’s real. “No,” he says. “We haven’t.”
A little wave of hope breaks through my cynicism. I straighten in my seat. “We start slow. We just talk, maybe. Get to know each other like normal people.”
Thomas grins, a little wry. “You think I’m capable of normal?”
I laugh again, this time with less panic in it. “No. But I want to try.”
He’s quiet, considering. “I want that, too. Even if I’m not very good at it. Even if I fuck up, I want you to know it was byaccident.” He leans forward, elbows on the table, and his eyes are suddenly so open, so vulnerable, it makes me ache. “I’m sorry for everything, Andie. Not just the cameras, but all the ways I’ve doubted you. All the ways I didn’t trust you.”
My hands are cold, but the rest of me is on fire. “I’m sorry, too,” I say. “For my harsh words and actions. For making you feel disposable. You never were.”
The waitress appears, ghostlike, at the edge of the booth. “Would you like to see a menu?” she asks, voice gentle enough to suggest she’s overheard every beat of our disaster.
I look at Thomas, waiting for him to take the lead. He gestures to me. “Ladies first.”
I order soup, because it’s the safest thing, the thing that won’t get caught in my throat when I’m trying not to cry. Thomas orders a rare steak, because of course he does. We don’t speak while the waitress pours our wine—a red that stains the inside of the glass like old secrets—and I’m grateful for the pause, the chance to recalibrate.
When we’re alone again, he says, “If you could have anything, right now, what would it be?”
I blink, caught off guard. “You mean, like, a wish?”
