Stuck with You (The STEMinist Novellas #2) by Ali Hazelwood

            I startle and look at Erik. He is still in the corner opposite mine, giving me a flat stare. “No, what?”

            “It’s not going to happen.”

            “You don’t even know what—”

            “You’re not going to climb out of the emergency exit.”

            I nearly recoil, because despite my magical-thinking tendencies I am aware that mind reading is not really a thing that exists. Then again, I am also aware that this is not the first time Erik seems to know exactly what’s going on in my head. He was pretty good at it during our dinner together. And then later, of course. In bed.

            But in this house (i.e., my brain) we do not acknowledge that.

            “Well,” I say, “you’re way bigger and way heavier. So you can’t do it.” Plus, I’m not sure I trust him not to leave me here. I’ve trusted him before and heavily regretted it.

            “Neither can you, because I’m not going to let you.”

            I frown. “I might be able to reach the exit by myself. In which case you technically don’t have to let me.”

            “If that happens, I’m going to physically prevent you from doing it.”

            I hate him. So much. “Listen, what if we’re stuck in here for days? What if me climbing out is our only chance?”

            “There is nothing to suggest that the elevator won’t start up again the second the power outage is resolved. We’ve been in here for about thirty minutes, which is nothing, considering that the repair crew is probably working on the grid to fix a block-wide outage. Not to mention how incredibly dangerous what you are proposing would be.”

            He’s right. I’m being impatient and irrational. Which flusters me. “I—only for me.”

            His face turns into stone. “Only for you?”

            “You’d be safe in here. You’d just need to wait for me to call help, and—”

            “You think I would be okay with you putting yourself in danger?” At baseline, Erik is not exactly a warm, convivial guy, but I had no idea he could sound like this. Deceptively calm, but furiously, icily livid. He leans forward as if to better glare at me, and his hand reaches up to close around the handrail, knuckles stretched white. I have a brief vision of him snapping it in two.

            His anger, of course, gives me anger FOMO and makes me just as angry. So I lean forward, too. “I don’t see why not.”

            “Really, Sadie? You don’t? You don’t fucking see why I wouldn’t be okay letting you, out of all people—” He looks away abruptly, jaw tense, a muscle ticking in his cheek. His hair, I notice, is shorter than when I touched it. And I think he might have lost a bit of weight. And I cannot, I truly cannot bear how handsome he is. “Would you really rather do something that idiotic and reckless than be in here with me for a few more minutes?” he asks, turning back to me, voice icy and calm again.

            Of course not, I almost blurt out. I’m not some horror movie not-quite-final girl who follows the death this way sign only to be flabbergasted when an ax murderer chops off her leg. I’m usually a responsible, levelheaded person—usually being the key word, because right now I’m kind of tempted to run into the loving, ax-wielding bosom of a serial killer. Rationally I know that Erik is right: we won’t be stuck in here for long, and someone is bound to come get us. But then I remember how betrayed and disappointed I felt in the days after he did what he did. I remember crying on the phone with Mara. Crying on the phone with Hannah. Crying on the phone with Mara and Hannah.

            Being here with him seems just as reckless as anything else, honestly. Which is how I find myself shrugging and saying, “Kind of, yeah.”

            I expect Erik to get angry again. To tell me that I’m being foolish. To make one of those dry jokes of his that made me laugh every time. Instead he takes me by surprise: He looks away guiltily. Then he presses his index and forefinger in his eyes, like he’s suddenly, overwhelmingly exhausted, and murmurs quietly, “Fuck, Sadie. I’m sorry.”





Chapter 6


            Three weeks ago

            I have a grand total of zero superstitious rituals centered around dating.

            And I promise I’m not saying this to brag. There is a simple reason I haven’t convinced myself that I need to chug down a Capri Sun or do seven jumping jacks before going out with someone, which is: I do not date. Ever. I used to, of course. Once upon a time. With Oscar, the Love of My Life.