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

            “That night, I . . .” He bites the inside of his cheek and seems to turn inward. “It was good. I think . . . I must have lost control.”

            I freeze. Something about this conversation isn’t quite right. “When you said you were sorry a minute ago, what were you referring to?”

            He blinks twice. “The things I did to you. In my apartment.”

            “No. No, that’s not . . .” My cheeks are hot and my head’s spinning. “Erik, why do you think I stopped picking up your calls?”

            “Because of the way I had sex with you. I was on you all night. Asked for too much. You didn’t enjoy it.” Suddenly, he looks as confused as I feel. Like we’re both in the middle of a story that doesn’t quite make narrative sense. “Sadie. Isn’t that the reason?”

            His eyes bore into mine. I press my palm against my mouth and slowly shake my head.





Chapter 8


            Three weeks ago

            We haven’t touched all night.

            Not at the restaurant. Not in the car. Not even in the elevator up to his Brooklyn Heights apartment, which is larger than mine but doesn’t look it because Erik is standing in it. We’ve been chatting like we did over dinner, which is fun and great and kind of hilarious, but I’m starting to wonder whether when I fooled myself into believing that I was bravely hitting on Erik, he actually thought that I was inviting myself over to play the FIFA video game. He’s going to say Come, I want to show you something. I’ll follow him down the hallway jelly-kneed, and once I’m at the end he’ll open the door of the Xbox room and I’ll quietly die.

            I stand in the entrance while Erik locks the door behind me, shifting awkwardly on my feet, contemplating my own mortality and the possibility of making a run for it, when I notice the cat. Perched on Erik’s spotless living room table (which appears not to be a repository for mail piles and take-out flyers; huh). It’s orange, round, and glowering at us.

            “Hi there.” I take a few steps, cautiously holding out my hand. The cat glowers harder. “Aren’t you a nice little kitten?”

            “He isn’t.” Erik is taking off his shoes and hanging his jacket behind me. “Nice, that is.”

            “What’s his name?”

            “Cat.”

            “Cat? Like . . . ?”

            “Cat,” he says, final. I decide not to press him.

            “I’m not sure why, but I pegged you for more of a dog person.”

            “I am.”

            I turn and give him a puzzled look. “But you have a cat?”

            “My brother does.”

            “Which one?” He has four. All younger. And it’s clear from the way he talks about them, often and with that half-gruff, half-amused tone, that they’re thick as thieves. My only-child, “Have this coloring book while Mommy and Daddy watch The West Wing” self burns with envy.

            “Anders. The youngest. He graduated college and is now . . . somewhere. Wales, I believe. Discovering himself.” Erik comes to stand next to me. He and Cat glare at each other. “While I temporarily watch his cat.”

            “What’s temporarily?”

            He presses his lips together. “So far, one year and seven months.” I try to keep a straight face, I really do, but I end up smiling into my hand, and Erik’s eyes narrow at me. “The beginning of our . . . relationship was rough, but we are slowly starting to come to an agreement,” he says, just as Cat jumps off the table and pauses to hiss at Erik on his way to the kitchen. Erik snaps back with something that sounds very harsh and consonant-based, then looks at me again. “Slowly.”

            “Very slowly.”

            “Yeah.”

            “Do you lock your bedroom door at night?”

            “Religiously.”

            “Good.”

            I smile, he doesn’t, and we slip into a lull of not-quite-comfortable silence. I fill it by looking around and pretending that I’m fascinated with the map of Copenhagen that hangs on the wall. Erik does it by standing next to me and asking, “Would you like something to drink? I think I have beer. And . . .” A pause. “Milk, probably.”