Page 87 of Double Apex

“Going down?” she asks, the pun apparent.

“I am,” Peach replies. Her brows lift in feigned innocence, and she adds, “To the gym, that is.” I don’t think I imagine her superior look as she eyes the croissant.

Phaedra laughs and takes a huge bite, saying around the mouthful, “Cool, have at it. I’ll catch a ride on the way back up.” She points her middle finger at the floor. “Off you fuck, sweet pea.”

My lips are clamped together, stifling my mirth, as I step from the elevator.

“This is my floor,” I tell Phaedra. “I was looking for you.”

“Huh. Ya don’t say.” Her triumphant gaze angles past me.

Peach ignores her, focused on me. “See you tonight, babyboy?” She taps her chest with a fingertip. “Peach—like the emoji.”

Phaedra maintains her composure until the elevator doors slide shut, then bursts out laughing. Her hair is in a messy braid draped over her shoulder, pointing at one of her perfect little tits, which strain the writing on a tight gray T-shirt with a picture of an engine, readingSTILL PLAYS WITH BLOCKS.

“Like the fuckin’ emoji?” Phaedra cackles. “Oh, that is priceless. Not ‘like the fruit,’ mind you, butthe emoji.” She shakes her head, laughter condensing into a groan. “These Gen Z kids slay me—seriously.”

“Wicked girl,” I tease, “to engage in a battle of wits with someone so poorly armed.”

We move aside as a group comes to wait for the elevator, and without realizing it, I’ve put an arm lightly around Phaedra’s waist, guiding her toward me. She glances pointedly at my hand on her hip, and I remove it before taking a step back.

“What do you need, Legs?”

“Your company for approximately three hours.” There’s a glitter-size flake of pastry on her upper lip and it’s all I can do not to lick it off. I reach with a thumb and brush it away.

She takes another slow bite of the croissant, examining me with suspicion.

“Yeah, sorry. I’m busy. I’ve got… um, a thing.”

“What kind of thing?”

She casually sweeps a crumb off her shirt. “Are you my PA now?”

There follows a silence into which my hope stumbles, like a hidden hole in the terrain.

I’m not ready to give up. I touch her chin, tipping her face to meet my eyes. Hers go wide, and I see the pain there—she feels as wretched as I do.

“The only person,” I tell her quietly, “who understands how much this hurts is the other. You and I, draga mea. Perhaps we cannot go back, but we can commiserate at least—as friends—on how unfair this is.” I touch her lower lip with my thumb. “I’d like to be friends.”

“That’s dangerous,” she replies immediately.

“So is racing. So is life.”

There’s a long pause in which she considers this.

On impulse, I add, slowly and clearly, “M-am gândit la tine toata ziua.”

After processing the phrase, she ventures, “You think of me every day?”

“Toata ziua—all day. But also în fiecare zi—every day.” I smile. “You’re still studying.”

She shrugs. “Little bit.”

I sense her thawing, and try, “Consider it a belated birthday gift to come with me today.”

“I sent you a swanky bottle of pinot noir.”

“And no one with whom to share it.”

---