The room spun, and all of a sudden, I was having trouble meeting his eyes.
These were not the conversations we were supposed to be having—the two of us. These were not the sorts of situations we were supposed to be getting ourselves into.
I was supposed to be in my office. Doing my job. Going home across the bridge to my apartment in Brooklyn to watch TV, drink some wine, and fall asleep holding all my phones.
He was supposed to be gallivanting around the Upper East Side. Going home with a beautiful woman, maybe two. Creating some fresh bit of mischief for me to fix in the morning.
We weren’t supposed to be sitting alone in a bar, drinking bottles of expensive liquor, recapping our day together with our shoes off. It just wasn’t...us.
“I shouldn’t have done it,” I said abruptly. “It was a bad call. I apologize.”
My hair had long ago come loose from its pins—releasing itself from its strict bun to fall in messy waves down the front of my blouse. On instinct, I started gathering it back up. Twisting and confining it once more. Grasping at some small semblance of professionalism.
His hands caught mine, freezing them in place.
“Abby...”
It was only with the greatest reluctance that I looked up to meet his gaze.
“...why her?”
My breath hitched in my chest, and all at once, I couldn’t stand to be in the room a second longer. The lights were too dim. The conversation was too honest. And Nick?
Nick...was too close.
“I really should be getting home.”
With no further preamble, I grabbed my bag and pushed to my feet...only to tilt with drunken imbalance and fall straight back into a pair of waiting arms.
Correction: now Nick’s too close.
For a second, the two of us just froze. Half-inclined on the sofa. His arms around my waist, me lying back in his arms. My hair spilling across his shoulders.
Then reality came crashing back.
“I’m sorry,” I murmured, struggling and failing to get to my feet. The whiskey bottle smirked knowingly on the table behind us. “I didn’t mean to—”
“Please—don’t apologize, not for that.” He lifted me gently to my feet and stood up. “Are you alright?”
It was a bad sign that even he had started to slur. It meant I was in for a rough night.
“I’m fine,” I said quickly, trying to extract myself from his arms. “Just need some water.”
He refused to let me go. If anything, he only held on tighter.
“Let me get you some.”
“Nick, it’s not—”
“Is there a bell we’re supposed to ring for service, or—”
“I’m really okay, just let—”
“You’d think there would be a bell—”
“Just let go!”
It came out a lot sharper than I’d intended. Heavy with accusation. Scalding the air in the little room, before echoing out into a stiff, ringing silence.