“Of course, Mr. Breckenridge. Welcome Miss Elia, please let me know if there is anything I can do to make your time here more pleasant.”
We ride the gilded elevator up and up and up, past the floor numbers that I expect him to live on. When we keep going, I wonder just how rich Charlie is. It occurs to me that I don’t even know exactly what Charlie does.
“Did we, uh, miss your floor?” I ask as we rocket past the thirties and then the forties.
“Nope.” Charlie rocks back on his heels, watching the numbers climb.
“What exactly is it that you do again?” I ask, swiveling to face him.
“Private Equity.”
“AKA, you’re filthy rich for no reason?” I ask, my tone barbed. It doesn’t seem to bother him though.
“We take a majority share in companies with the help of investors and we make them better through restructuring and other corporate nonsense.”
“Right.”
He must see that my eyes glazed over at some point. “Are you tired or is what I do just that boring?”
The elevator finally stops and we step into a long hallway. I can barely keep myself upright from exhaustion that hits me. Maybe it’s just the sudden stop of the elevator that seemed to fly, but I sway a little. Charlie reaches out to steady me again.
“Finance guys all think they’re hot shit and what they do issointeresting.” I try to stay light, but I can hear my words slurring.
Charlie takes the crutches out of my hands and leans them on the other side of the elevator door. I don’t have time to formulate an objection before he’s scooping me up again, watching my cast and making sure he doesn’t smash my foot into the closing doors. I lean into his touch, tucking my head into the crook of his neck. He lowers his head just a little, pressing his cheek to the crown of my head. He’s coming to my rescue again, and being in his arms, feeling his hands on me, and I don’t mind too much.
“It’s hard not to think that when women keep throwing themselves at me.”
I cling to him, furious with myself for it. I breathe in deeply, not wanting my eyes to close, but it’s a losing battle. With PT in the hospital, I would work my muscles hard and then go right to my bed and nap. The stairs, leaving the hospital, through all of it today I have fought to stay awake.
“You picked me up, bud,” I remind him teasingly, forcing my eyes open. We’re near the top of the apartment building and I want to see the spectacular space that he must live in.
“Only after you threw yourself in front of my car.”
“Hardy-har-har,” I respond, but I’m not sure he hears it because my eyes are closed before the elevator doors shut behind me.
I wake on the softest bed I think I’ve ever slept in. The bed is warm around me like a cocoon. I can pretend, just for a few minutes, that I’m back at my parents’ house; before the fire that claimed their lives, before I went to college, before I lost my memory. The sun is setting and I can see a touch of the brilliant hues in the sky through the sheer curtains on the windows.
It occurs to me that I fell asleep in Charles, er, Charlie’s arms. It occurs to me that he carried me to bed and tucked me in. It occurs to me that I should be embarrassed, but I’m not. He’s had to leave the room so the nurses could help me use the bathroom so I didn’t flash my bare ass at him. He’s been there when I screamed and raged in pain, refusing an opiate. Somewhere in these moments, I caught feelings. It’s not until I’m lying in this bed realizing the weight of all these little things he’s done for me, that maybe I’m not alone. It’s not romantic, though the attraction is there, as much as I try to deny it. I think we’re starting to become friends and maybe it’s something we both need.
I sit up, my crutches leaning against the wall, waiting for me. On the nightstand sits a glass of water and the Ibuprofen prescription for my pain. I’m sore, muscle fatigue everywhere in my body, but none of the outright pain that was plaguing me earlier. Seems sleeping on something that’s not a cardboard box will do the body good.
The room I’m in is simple and impersonal. This space looks more like a magazine style home instead of the short term rental style of mine. The room is all whites and beige; the only shock of color is the red and orange canvas feather above the headboard that I can see in the mirror directly across from the foot of the bed. I’ve seen hotel rooms with more personality, but I’m hardly going to complain. Charlie has given me somewhere warm and comfortable, with an elevator, to rest in while I recuperate.
I emerge from the room with a crutch tucked under my bad arm, to be further wowed by the apartment. He wasn’t kidding when he told me that he had space for me to come stay with him. I didn’t think that apartments in New York City actually existed with a staircase in them, but here we are. Unobtrusively set toward the far wall is one of those floating staircases that looks like certain death. The staircase doesn’t take up as much space as you would expect, especially since the space is utilized with a bar cart under it. The couch that Charlie currently occupies faces the obscenely large TV that practically blocks the sweeping views of Central Park.
Floor to ceiling windows cover all the way up to the second floor of the apartment. Whoever designed the guest room must have done the same here. The couch looks new and fluffed, like he’s barely sat on it. The kitchen that is right by the front door is large and gleaming with dark marble countertops. The space screams magazine representation of a bachelor pad.
“Hey, you’re awake,” Charlie says, closing his computer halfway and setting it on the coffee table in front of him.
“Yeah, I’m so sorry for—”
“Nothing, you have nothing to be sorry for. Can I get you anything?”
My eyes are drifting around the apartment now, registering the dining room table for six between another room on this floor and the living room space. Tucked under the stairs is a rowing machine with a massive screen that faces one of the dual exposure windows overlooking Central Park. Views like this are only supposed to exist in movies.
My stomach gives an undignified growl, drawing a laugh from Charlie. My eyes flit to his.
“I guess food is a priority for now. I can cook?” I offer, but it’s just as much a question. I’m not great at cooking, and if I improved in the last five years, it’s been lost. Muscle memory can only get you so far.