Page 24 of Ambiguous
“Yeah.” Again, there’s a smile in his tone. “I’m gay.”
“Oh.”
My mind is calm enough to be thankful he’s not asking me the same question. Because right now—while trusting this almost-stranger in the dark—I might answer him.
We sit quietly until Sam asks, “How come you’re not afraid to be mobbed by fans, but a largish box with four walls scares you?”
“Dunno. It’s not like fears are rational. Maybe I don’t trust machinery. Though it’s not lifts themselves. I use them all the time. It’s being stuck in one.” I exhale. “Your voice helps.”
“Okay, then. I want you to listen and focus on relaxing your body. Can you do that?”
“Yeah,” I rasp.
Sam starts chattering about how he’s an only child and his family is in politics and what his favorite foods are and what he likes to watch on television. I can tell he’s just saying anything he can to keep talking, and I appreciate it more than he knows.
“… and I spend my evenings doing yoga.”
This makes me snort. “You do?”
“I do.”
We sit in silence for a moment, but it’s more companionable. I’m not as panicked. And I admit another fear.
“Lately—for the last two years, actually—nothing I’ve written has felt right. It’s felt… banal. Nothing that I would consider good enough to put out for the public. I’m not a perfectionist, but nothing I’ve created has had the emotional impact I want. Not until you inspired me.”
He pauses, then in this sincere voice says, “You’ll get it done.” As if it’s as simple as that.
And maybe it is.
“Thanks.”
After some time, another buzzing noise sounds, and the lights go back on. We both go to stand up at the same time and bump into each other.
“Sorry,” I mutter.
He reaches over and squeezes my hand again. “Don’t worry about it.”
The lift lurches down, and I barely keep from wrapping myself around him like a vine on a tree. I manage to limit it to clutching his hand and leaning my face against his shoulder.
Chuckling, he holds my hand tight as I bury my nose in his neck. “Hey. It’s fine. It will—”
The car jostles to a stop. When the doors open, we quickly separate and discover we’re on the fourth floor, where we’re greeted by a gentleman in a hard hat wearing a tool belt.
“Sorry about that,” he says. “You can get to the parking garage from this level if you go over the bridge, and those elevators are running.”
“Thanks,” Sam tells him before turning to me. “I’ll walk you out that way and then use the stairs to the basement.”
I nod. I’d been expecting to have to deal with paparazzi, but the tech’s the only person around. I pull out my phone and text my driver, who meets me where we exit.
Sam walks me to the idling car. He slips his hands into his pockets, his jacket folded over one forearm, and studies my face. “Are you going to be okay?”
“I’m fine.” I smile. “Thanks for your help today.”
“You’re welcome.” He reaches out a hand, and I shake it.
I like the way his hand feels in mine.
I stare into his gorgeous eyes, full of sincerity and kindness, and realize how lucky I was that he was in the lift with me today. Of all the people on the planet, I was trapped with the one who treated me the exact way I needed to be treated.
