20. Scratching the Surface

Just five more steps, I tell myself, panting and sweating through my winter coat. Just four more steps and I’ll never have to move ever again.

I’m leaning against the stairwell, forcing one foot in front of the other, clutching the last box—the last box—with both hands and the raw desperation of someone who hasn’t slept in three days.

My knees are buckling, but I push through, fighting to climb just two more—

My foot slips.

There’s a screeching moment of panic where I imagine myself tumbling down the stairs, my chin hitting every step on the way. Before real tragedy strikes, my hindbrain takes over.

I use the last shred of strength in my arms to fling the box away from me. I don’t see where it lands—I’m too busy flailing for the handrail. My fingers graze it, but I can’t hold on.

My knees hit first, hard. Then my upper body smacks into the landing, and my chin drags across the rough pavement.

“Andy, do you need any he—? Oh. There you are.”

Two arms haul me up and lean me against the wall. Doug’s worried face swims into view.

“That’s a nasty scrape,” he says, reaching for my chin.

I straighten up and gently swat his hand away. “My battle wound. No touching.”

Doug chuckles and bends to pick up that damned last box while I brush off my coat and try to look like I haven’t been taken out by gravity.

“Whatever you say, She-Ra. Though I’m not sure a facial scar goes with all those designer labels you wear now.”

“Sure it does,” I say, holding open the door to Doug’s—our—apartment. “Dramatic backstories are very in right now.”

“You would know.” Doug sets the box down just inside and ushers me to the couch—the one where we hatched this brilliant, apparently life-threatening plan just a week ago. “Sit,” he commands, heading to the kitchen. “We need wine.”

“A lot of wine,” I call after him.

I groan as I sink into the cushions. Concrete would feel luxurious right about now. I stretch my legs out, flexing my aching feet.

“I’m not moving from this spot. This is where I live now,” I declare.

Doug reappears, handing me a very full glass of white wine. “Well, yeah,” he grins. “You do.”

I roll my eyes and take a generous gulp.

“At least you have tomorrow to settle in before going back to running around like a wild woman.”

I sigh. “Yeah. Unpacking has got to be better than packing and moving.”

“I told you we could’ve hired movers,” Doug points out—for maybe the fourth time.

I wave him off. “Too expensive. And I didn’t think I had this much stuff.”

I glance around the living room. A few boxes are scattered here, but most of them are piled in my new room, covering every square inch of floor space.

I wonder if I can crawl across the top of them to get to the bed.

“At least the hard part’s done,” I say. “Thanks for helping me lug everything.”

We clink our glasses.

“Of course,” Doug says after a sip. “I think you might’ve actually died if you’d tried it alone.”

I giggle in agreement.

We sit in comfortable silence for a few beats, enjoying the reward of a brutal day finally over. We can relax, maybe watch some TV, and—

“So, what did your parents say?”

I pull one knee up and take a long drink from my glass.

“Andy,” Doug presses. “You told them, didn’t you?”

A painting across the room catches my eye. It’s really nice. I wonder where he got it.

A pillow smacks me in the face.

“Hey!” I yelp, whipping around to glare at him. “You could’ve spilled my wine!”

“You have to tell them,” he says, completely unrepentant. “They’re your parents, Andy.”

I let out a long sigh and sink deeper into the couch. “I know. I just… I don’t know what to say.”

“Easy. ‘Hey Mom and Dad, just wanted to let you know I moved. Here’s my new address.’ Boom. Done.”

“The last time I talked to them,” I say quietly, “they told me I should move back home.”

Doug’s voice softens. “They care about you. They’re not showing it well, but they care. You should hold onto that.”

I meet his eyes. There’s pain in them. Pain I recognize.

“I know,” I say just as softly. I slide my hand over his. “I’ll call them tomorrow.”

Doug squeezes my hand back. “Good.” He snatches the TV remote from the coffee table. “Now—what should we watch?”

“Survivor?” I suggest.

Doug nods. “You can’t go wrong with hot, sweaty dudes and backstabbing schemes.”

And just like that, the tension breaks. We spend the next few hours convincing ourselves we could totally dominate the challenges—and see every twist coming.

There’s no silence to run from tonight.

I stare at the phone.

The phone stares back at me.

Doug stares at me from the kitchen table, scooping Cheerios into his mouth.

“So are you going to do it, or…?”

I huff and snatch up my phone, turning to lean against the kitchen counter. I don’t let my fingers hesitate as I pull up the contact and press call.

One ring. Another. Anot—

“Andrea Nichole Sachs,” my mother’s voice is so crisp I glance around to make sure she isn’t actually in the room. “Do you know how worried we’ve been? A month—no calls, no texts. What were we supposed to think? That woman has you working so hard, you could’ve fainted on the side of the road and—”

“Mom, Mom,” I cut in, trying to slow the rolling tide. Probably impossible, but I try. “I’m fine. I’m sorry I haven’t called. How are you? How’s Dad?”

“Oh, fine. Just fine. Other than worrying whether our only daughter was dead in a ditch somewhere.”

She’s not going to let it go.

“Okay, Mom,” I sigh. “I get it. I’m sorry I had you worried. I really am good. Great, actually.”

“Oh?” Her tone shifts, curious now. “Well that’s wonderful, dear. What has things looking so sunny?”

“Well,” I start, chewing my lip. I debate what to tell her. Unless she started reading Runway during our month of silence, she still doesn’t know about my article.

A miniature version of me zips around my head:

Tell her! She’ll be so excited. Your first published article since college. It’s a huge deal!

Another sits on my shoulder, back turned, hidden beneath my hair:

Don’t bother. They don’t even want you to be a writer.

“I moved apartments,” I say.

“What? But your place was so nice. Why leave?”

I fight not to roll my eyes. I wouldn’t be surprised if she could sense it over the phone.

“It was too expensive, Mom. I couldn’t afford it on my own. I was looking at needing three other roommates, but Doug offered me his guest room. We moved everything yesterday.”

“Doug?” she echoes. “Nate’s friend?”

A twinge goes through my jaw. I force it to relax.

“My friend, Mom,” I say, a little sharper than intended. I try to steer us back. “My roommate now, too. I’ll text you the address. It’s a nice place. Lots of stairs, though.”

I poke at my chin and wince. I cleaned it last night, but it’s definitely not going to disappear by morning.

Time to put that concealer to the test.

“Well, that’s nice, sweetie. Maybe Doug can help convince you to do more than work all the time.”

“Mom—”

“Your twenties are a time for fun, exploration, relationships. I just don’t want you missing out. That woman shouldn’t work you so hard. Doesn’t she remember what it’s like being young?”

“And law school is so conducive to fun and relationships?” I say, incredulous. “Really, Mom?”

“Andrea Sachs, there’s no need to talk back.”

Something about her using my full name bugs me more than when Miranda does it.

“Mom,” I say, forcing my voice calm, “I promise I’m still socializing. Doug and I go out for drinks all the time.”

Okay, all the time is a stretch.

My mom sighs. “Okay, sweetie. You’re an adult. You can manage your own life. I trust you not to waste it.”

Somehow, I’m not sure I believe that.

“Thanks, Mom.” I try to keep the glumness out of my voice. “I’ll text you the address. And we’ll catch up more later, okay?”

“Sure, sweetie. Love you.”

“Love you.”

I hang up and lift my head, meeting Doug’s eyes. He shrugs. I shrug back.

At least I got it done.

“Are there any Cheerios left?” I pull out the chair across from him and shake the box.

“Whoever finishes the box buys the next one,” Doug says around a mouthful.

I flick a Cheerio at him before pouring my own bowl.

“What did you do?” Emily hisses at the side of my desk.

I jump and turn to face her. “Nothing!” I hiss back. “What are you talking about?”

“She’s been staring at you all day. Don’t pretend you haven’t noticed.”

“I haven’t noticed,” I drawl. “I’ve been busy. You know, doing my job.”

Emily glares down at me.

I spread my arms. “It’s Monday morning. What could I possibly have done between Friday and now?”

Emily crosses her arms. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe you crossed paths over the weekend and acknowledged her—though where you could possibly go to be in the same place as Miranda on a weekend, I’m sure I don’t—”

“Emily,” I say sharply. “I didn’t do anything.”

She opens her mouth to press the point, but the phone rings. I reach for the receiver like a lifeline.

Just before my fingers graze it, I hear: “Andrea.”

A shiver goes through me. I abandon the phone for the tablet and rise, leaving Emily to scramble back to her desk before the call goes to voicemail.

It really does sound different when Miranda says my name.

Inside the office, she isn’t at her desk.

I glance around and find her in the far corner, out of sight from the doorway. Her back is turned, one hand playing absently with the chain around her neck as she gazes out at the mid-morning skyline.

“Come here.”

My feet move before my brain finishes processing the command. Her voice must be embedded in my nervous system by now.

I stop just behind her.

She turns to face me—but doesn’t speak. She studies my face, and when her eyes settle on my chin, she still says nothing.

There’s a pause. Just long enough to become strange.

Then she lets go of the chain and steps forward. I hitch in a breath.

She reaches out, her fingers brushing under my chin—not touching the injury, but lifting gently.

I freeze.

Her eyes scan my skin up close, and then—still holding my chin—she lifts her gaze to meet mine.

The moment holds. Barely a breath, but full.

Her eyes are blue, but not just blue. Different shades, layered and shifting. In this light, they’re like the surface of the ocean on a bright day—gleaming, endless, impossible to photograph.

They’re—

She lets go.

Steps back.

Half turns away.

“Green concealer will cancel out the red,” she says, her voice clipped, her back to me. “That’s all.”

My legs are wobbly as I return to my desk.

Thankfully, the phone rings before I can start to wonder why.