Page 38 of Ellie Hayes and the Himbos
The elevator comes to a stop, chiming a brightding!before the doors open. I hadn’t noticed the ding earlier. That’s going to get old.
No takers, just a large 24 painted on the wall and an oversizedprint reading “Alright, Alright, Alright.” The car waits for ten seconds before the doors close. Twenty-two to go.
“Interesting, seeing where I used to live?” I continue, eagerly. “Or interesting because you can’t find a better way to describe the experience of demoralizing my ex?”
Ian ducks his chin and reaches for the brim of his cap, but for once, he isn’t wearing it. Instead, he ruffles his hair, reminding me of how soft it had felt between my fingers the night we met. “I know that I can have an impact.”
“Animpact?” I repeat, not bothering to hide my laugh. “Such a tame word for turning a man to dust at the sight of your dominant masculine form.” His brows raise, and I roll my eyes. “Please.Like yours is evernotthe dominant masculine form. When Heather saw you this morning, she shouted, ‘Whosehorseis that?’”
He huffs a laugh. “That was a first.” He runs a hand through his hair again, then rests his forearm against the back of the chair. “Impactis what our dad says. We got our height from him. When I hit a growth spurt in high school, he sat me down to talk about how intimidating size like ours can be. To women, in particular, it can be threatening. So be aware. Don’t loom, don’t corner, leave an exit clear…”
“Grant must have gotten that Dad chat, too,” I say. “He left the front door open when I went into the house the first time. It was really thoughtful.”
“Good.” He nods, more to himself than me. “Dad also said that if dealing with the kind of guy who’d be…” He seems to search for phrasing.
“Angling to have yourself described asdominantly masculineagain, Mr. Hammond?”
“If a guy’s so fragile that the sight of me can take him down a peg, then he deserves to be.”
I prop my chin in my hand. “Fair enough. But how’d you know that Cole fit the bill?”
The elevator settles at the next floor; I’ve already lost track of how far we’ve gone. The doors open, but Ian’s eyes don’t leave mine. He watches me with the same stormy concern he wore when he entered the apartment earlier. My fingers curl, digging into the plush fabric of the chair. It’s disarming, being on the receiving end of a look like that. I don’t know whether to rally my defenses or surrender.
“Whatever happened with him left you desperate enough to move into the Dawghouse,” he says, firmly. “Anyone who could do that is clearly lacking.”
My skin tingles. Hecares.
He’s quiet for a moment, eyes going distant. His gaze is still unfocused when he says, “That night in the bathroom, I don’t know if you remember, but you said that you were…”
His eyes meet mine again, and heat spreads from my cheeks to my chest… and lower. “Severalthings, but sad was one of them. And for a second, before we—” He raises his hands and lets his fingers link briefly before separating. “You looked it. More than sad. Like… diminished. And I saw that again in your apartment.”
The words generate more than tingles. My body issparking.
The urge to tell him everything is so fierce, I have to physically brace against it. I run the scenario: the mystery pain, the breakups, the hope I felt early on with Cole, and the relief of my endometriosis diagnosis before the relationship’s gradual breakdown. The degree to which I’d allowed myself to be diminished—ten pointsto Ian;diminishedwas a quality word choice—my eye, and the fear and uncertainty that quietly dominate every spare moment and thought.
The urge passes before the elevator reaches its next stop. Confiding in him might relieve me of some of the burden, but to watch the concern in his eyes twist into pity is an indignity I’m unwilling to risk.
“We’d been over for a while,” I say, the go-to line worn to edgeless. “It was just shitty timing on his part.”
“That’s vague,” he complains, and my thrill at the fact that he cares enough to point this out is outweighed only by how appalled I am that it takes so little to thrill me.
I don’t know if it’s me or my ever-present instinct to please, but I add, “Seeing him reminded me of who I was when we were together. Who I’d become with him by the end. And I don’t want to be that person anymore.”
“Hmm.” He eases himself into a half-seated position on the arm of the chair, bringing him close enough that I feel the heat radiating from his body. “Still vague. But very dramatic.”
I let out an involuntary laugh, and he smiles.
“It’s embarrassing,” I say, which is also true. “You saw Captain Day-Glo. I stuck it out withhim. He stopped caring—” I halt, my chest tightening. It’s exactly what happened. Cole stopped caring. I’ve lost all humor as I add, “And I kept trying, anyway.”
I force myself to meet Ian’s storm-cloud gaze. “I like being useful. I genuinely enjoy doing things for the people I care about. I like making their lives easier.Better.And when the cracks started to show, I filled them by leaning into that. I took on more and more around the apartment, prioritized the things he liked orwanted to do. And he was appreciative at first,” I add, more for my benefit than Cole’s. “But it didn’t take long before all that became routine, too.”
It wasn’t enough.
“I can understand someone not seeing the value in maintaining a pristine toilet,” I say, the example inane, but real. “But he stopped caring that I did. That things like that matter to me. And thenthatbecame routine. I started to expect less and less from him, and he delivered. He didn’t value what I did. And by extension, he didn’t value me.”
“And you stayed,” he says. No judgment, just an observation.
“I convinced myself I didn’t need it. The consideration. It was either that or believe I didn’t deserve it,” I say, and wince. I could break my own heart thinking about that too long.
