Page 41 of Loathing My Boss
“I’m sorry I can’t be of more help,” Crimson says. “She’s got walls on top of walls erected to keep her safe. Breaking in could shock her. If it’s any consolation, I am rooting for you two.”
No answers. Some support. My gaze drifts to the pillow wall separating the bed into two sides. “How little do you recommend shocking her?”
A puff of breath that’s almost a laugh reaches me. “Well, there’s an idea. If she feels safe hating you, Viktor…what do you have to lose? Making her hate you more won’t send her running like a love confession might. You let her get away with an awful lot. Stop. Set some boundaries. See what happens. Because, at least from where I’m sitting, it seems like nothing’s going to change until something breaks.”
That’s a terrifying idea.
But it’s the best clue I’ve got.
So, I take down the only wall I know I can control, and hope I survive the night.
Chapter 15
?
It’s all fun and games, until somebody gets hurt.
Viktor
“What happened to the purity wall while I was gone?” Crisis asks the second she’s returned from her wandering, set her purse down in her desk chair, and taken in the heap of pillows I’ve stacked on the floor by my side of the bed. Her deep brown eyes hit me, skeptical. “Do you not care about purity anymore?”
Excellent observation.
I fix my attention back on my computer screen, reference my outline, and type. I’m behind on my goals for today. The writing class earlier on top of the phone call with Crimson and Crisis’s absence made for a terribly underproductive day.
And I know if I don’t meet my goals, she is not above emailing Desmond.
I say, “It takes up a lot of room in the bed. I’m wondering if it’s why I’m not sleeping well. I should have adjusted to being in a new bed after one night, but I still haven’t.” Because I went home last night to print off my love letter after spending several hours wondering how I was supposed to be able to sleep when I could feel her breathing beside me.
“Hm.” Pushing back the waterfall of her hair, Crisis plucks up her laptop and settles cozily in on her side of the bed beneath the throw blanket.
Stretching my fingers, I broach, “Does it…bother you not having a purity wall?”
“No. It’s just unexpected.”
Bracing myself, I ask, “Why?”
“You seemed so keen on being proper a few days ago.” She smiles. “I’ve corrupted you.”
No truer words.
The sound of her keystrokes blend with mine, steady, constant. Pause. Steady and constant again.
“What are you working on?” I ask.
“Nothing. I’m off the clock.”
Yet she’s typing an awful lot. She was typing a lot last night, too. Just like this, on the bed, but with damp hair from a shower. Her lavender soap was unbearably thick in the air, and I couldn’t get used to it. It’s part of what propelled me to escape back home to print the love letter I foolishly, and sleep-deprivededly, typed out in a Google doc on my phone. The other part that propelled me was being unable to locate a printer here and doubting I’d know how to use it if I did.
At least I only tested the waters with a few paragraphs of desperation. Leaving several thousand words for her to find would have been gut wrenching to watch her shred. Worse, she may have connected the tones to my style of writing if I’d given her too much content, and then what would I have done?
I can’t concentrate. Having that writer class this morning on fairly juvenile topics of craft burned my best time to write—according to the schedule that Crisis made me suffer through many, many experiments to learn.
I’m behind according to Crisis’s schedule.
I…amvery much not behind according to my publisher’s deadlines, though.
Brow furrowing, I stare at my blinking cursor. Now that I’m thinking about it, the only time Crisis emailed Desmond, I was nearinghisdeadline for me, and she contacted him about an extension.
