Wolfram's apartment is less ostentatious than I expect, but still has a prestigious area code not too far from my current address. The elevator ride up to his floor is awkward, spent in sidelong glances and averted eyes. The door doesn't open for anyone else along the way, and by the time we reach our destination and the elevator doors slide open with a soft ping, I release the lungful of air I've been holding.
"After you." Wolf gestures ahead of him.
I step out, then let him take the lead as we head to his front door. After a moment spent digging in his pockets for the keys, he unlocks the door and turns to me, expectant.
Deciding to make him sweat a little, I smirk and fold my arms across my chest. "I'm waiting," I inform him in a lofty tone, gratified when I see his forehead scrunch in confusion.
"I don't follow," Wolf says, using his foot to prop the door open.
"You mean," I say, gasping with mock-outrage, "you're not going to carry me over the threshold?"
At the expression of dawning comprehension on his face, my smirk grows wider. "Ha. Gotcha."
"Very witty," Wolf drawls as I push past himâand I can sense rather than see his eye rollâ"Very mature."
The foyer is small, cramped. There's a shabby-chic crate on its side, pushed up against the wall next to the door with men's shoes inside. From behind me, Wolf closes the door and kicks his shoes off in the direction of the crate.
Ahead, I see the gleam of stainless steel and large hanging lights. The kitchen, I surmise, deciding to give it a miss for now. Wandering, I explore the the rest of the house. The living room is the same as most living rooms - well-used couches and recliners aimed at the flat-screen television. There is a distinct lack of a feminine touch in the room. The furniture is masculine, dark-cherry wood and burgundy leather. All the surfaces are free of dust and the side tables have books on them. No pictures, anywhere.
"This is really..." I say, trailing off. "Normal," I finally settle upon.
"Good normal?"
I nod. "Good normal. Just not what I expected."
"Yeah, not what my mother expected, either." Wolf shrugs his shoulders. "I don't need an expensive apartment. Just enough to suit my needs."
"How'd you get into our place, anyway?" I ask, redirecting the conversation to a question that's been burning in my mind since I first got here. "I gave the house key to Levi before we left."
Wolf cocks his head at me. "Didn't he tell you?"
"Tell me what?"
He motions for me to sit down. Stiffly, I do so, perching on the edge of his leather sofa with deliberate primness.
"Dad owned the apartment. When Levi set out on his own, he gave him ownership of the place." A smug smile settles over his face. "I managed to keep hold of a set of keys." At the look on my face, he frowns, sitting opposite me on a leather recliner.
His arm drapes over the armrest and his fingers drum against it. Long, artistic fingers. I remember holding his hand in Efteling, but it feels so long ago, now. A pang of nostalgia hits me right in the chest, and it couldn't be more painful than if a big, fat, glaring what-if had slapped me in the face.
"You didn't really think he could afford that penthouse on an artist's salary, did you?" His voice is gentle.
"I guess I didn't really think about it."
Changing tack, he crosses his legs. "Is he really that good?"
"He has an exhibition coming up." I give him a challenging smile. "Come with me and see for yourself."
His jaw tenses. "Maybe I will."
It's as much of an RSVP as I'll get out of him, so I stand, the movement quick and abrupt. Instantly, he's on his feet too, ever the gentleman.
"Where's my room?" I ask.
"I'll show you."
I follow him, surprised to find that the rest of the apartment is as humble as his living room. The furniture is good quality and expensive, but it's nowhere near the ostentation that lined every wall of their Netherland home. There are no crystal chandeliers, bronze statues, or Rembrandt-esque paintings.
I stare at his back, a little stunned. The muscles of his back ripple as he walks, something I wish I don't notice, but I do. He's downgraded his lifestyle, but why? Then, just as quickly as the thought occurs to me, I shake it out of my head. Why should I care if he's made changes in his life?
"The bathroom is here," he says, nudging the door open with his toe. He flicks on the light, treating me to pine tree green paint and black trim, the hint of an ivory tub behind the door, and an oval mirror with an elaborate, swirly border. "It's all yours. I have my own."
"And here's your room." He nods to the closed door opposite the bathroom.
A little apprehensive, I twist the doorknob. It's nothing like my bedroom in his Netherland home. The Yellow Room was dripping in luxury, but it made me uncomfortable and out of place, like a grungy tourist clambering into a medieval bed on display in a museum. This room is whitewashed: white walls, white comforter, filmy ivory curtains, white desk, white gooseneck lamp, white 21.5" iMac desktop, white nightstand, a white potted cactus on top of it next to a gold and white glass table lamp, and a white fur rug.
"Wow."
His face pinches together in consternation. "You like it?"
The lilting, hopeful hint in his voice makes me look at him. Yet another anomaly about this man that I don't know how to puzzle out. He clearly went to all the trouble of setting this room up for me and he's actually nervous as to whether I like it. A rush of warmth passes over me. I'm touched, and I let it show.
"I love it," I say, frank and admiring. "But I've gotta tell you, my stuff is so not going to match any of this. I'm going to ruin your color scheme."
Maybe he went with white because it matches with everything, or maybe because it symbolizes the blank slate he wants us to have, but either way, the room fills me with giddy anticipation. It's the kind of room that the e-famous Instagrammers have, the kind of room that gets thousands of likes and comments from admiring fans. The kind of room I always wanted, but could never quite achieve, considering my penchant for thrift shop and antique market bargain shopping.
"Do whatever you want to decorate," is his immediate reply. "Repaint, hang some pictures, whatever."
"No, this is"âI turn to look at him, swallowingâ"perfect."
"Your boxes are in the spare room. I can help you move your desk and stuff tomorrow so you can personalize the room."
I nod, still feeling a little emotional. "Thanks."
"No problem."
"No, I mean..." I splay my arms wide, encompassing everything in the room. "For this. It's really nice, Wolf."
He ducks his head, looking more bashful than I've ever seen him. "I'm glad you like it," he says, voice soft. A rueful grin crosses his lips. "I have an admission to make." He pauses, his lips still quirked upward. "I don't have anything in my fridge. So dinner's kind of up in the air."
⦿ ⦿ ⦿
As it turned out, dinner wasn't up in the air so much as down the street at a very dilapidated Chinese restaurant. I say restaurant, but that's probably too kind a word.
"No way," I balk, staring at the peeling paint and yellowing, curled-up menu posted on the front door. "I'm going to catch gangrene just stepping into this place," I whine, shaking my head and doing everything but stomping my foot on the ground.
"It's clean," says Wolf. "Don't let appearances fool you."
"Then you eat here and I'll wait and see what happens to you," I say tartly, folding my arms across my chest and giving him an obstinate frown.
The windows of The Golden Dragon are smudged and grimy, like no one's bothered to clean them in years, and I can't even see inside. It also looks suspiciously empty, since no one has come in or out since we've been here.
"I've eaten here a million times," he counters. "Come on." Giving me no time to find a counter argument, he tugs my elbow and beckons me to follow him.
As he holds the door open for me, I duck under his arm and enter, immediately wrapped in the cloying scent of garlic, soy sauce, and chilies. It's kind of heavenly, but I'm reserving judgment until I see the state of the place up close. I'm surprised to find that despite outward appearances, the inside is clean. The tiles are a little cracked and yellow in places, but I can't find a noodle or grain of rice underfoot.
There's no seating room, but there's a dozen people crowding around the counter where a harassed-looking Chinese woman is accepting cash and credit cards before handing customers large brown paper bags.
"Ah, Mr. van der Waals," she greets when the crowd dissipates and it's our turn. "Your usual?" Her eyes skip to me and she smiles in welcome. "And for your lady friend?" she asks.
"This place has great hand-pulled noodles," Wolf murmurs to me. "Want to look at a menu?"
"Your turf," I say, stuffing my hands in the pocket of my coat. "Pick for me?"
His eyes light up and he says "Yes, ma'am" like he was waiting for me to come to that conclusion. "Let's have the number 36, 37, and a half-order of 51."
I can't help but tease him. "You rattled that off like a pro." I nudge him with my elbow and watch as the grin spreads over his face.
"Well, I come here a lot."
People line the perimeter of the store to wait for their orders, leaning against the peeling wallpapered walls. An obese woman jostles my arm and her bags of shopping hit against the back of my knee. Even in New York, there is such a thing as personal space, but this woman didn't get the memo. I give her a tight-lipped look, but she doesn't budge. Her hoop earrings are as wide as the circumference of her neck and her eyes flick over me in dismissal as she plays with one of them, tugging on her earlobe hard enough that I can see the grotesque stretching of her ear hole.
"Popular place," I remark with a wince, inching closer to Wolf.
The door opens again and to make room, everyone shifts. The woman presses closer, then snaps a cell phone from one of her many bags and starts dialing.
A server emerges from the kitchen, a pretty girl with a smooth, peaches and cream complexion and french-braided black hair. In her arms are two enormous, bulging paper bags. She sets them down on the counter, grabs the stack of receipts next to the cash register before finding the one she wants, and then in one fluid motion, rolls down the top of each bag and punches a staple through each corner. From one staple is attached the receipt.
Everyone perks up. Someone's order is ready.
The owner, manning the register, glances at the receipt. "Chicken and mushroom dumpling, pork fried rice, liang pi noodle and tofu," she recites in her accented English.
A well-dressed man in a suit moves forward to collect his dinner.
"Taking fo-ever, baby," the woman behind me complains, her Queens accent loud and nasal. She punctuates her displeasure with a gusty sigh, dropping her bags on the floor. One of them has a painful landing on my foot and I resist my first impulse - which is to kick it. But this woman is wearing enough rings to scar my face permanently if she decides to punch me, so I applaud my self-control and try to ignore her, instead. I don't get an apology; either she doesn't notice or doesn't care.
"Fuhgeddaboudit, baby," she continues, oblivious. "Put some wine in the fridge and get things ready for me when I get home. All the toys."
Gross, like sex toys? A totally juvenile urge to snicker passes over me, and I don't realize that a faint smile has crossed my lips until I see her blatant stare from the corner of my eye. To my horror, she bugs her eyes out in a threatening what are you looking at? expression.
I look away quickly, and catch the beginning of her sentence - "Sorry, baby, didn't hear that, some bitch was listenin'..." She giggles, affecting a pout that actually makes me feel sorry for the person on the other end who has decided to share his or her life with this walking, talking sideshow.
I catch Wolf's eye and raise a do you hear this crap? eyebrow. He responds with a knowing smirk, just shuffling forward in the line.
"So," he says, angling his neck so his words are for my ears only, "what happened at the restaurant really shook you up, huh?"
Liza. The nerves in my forehead constrict and I will myself not to erupt into a headache right then and there - I don't have any aspirin with me. "What makes you say that?"
"The fact you gave in so easily when I 'weaseled my way into getting you to spend an evening with me'," he retorts, quoting my own words back at me with an unrepentant grin and no trace of shame on his handsome face.
"After I eat, I'll recover enough energy to fight your heavy-handed, incredibly poor, self-centered decision making with you, but for tonight, I'm exhausted. Truce?" I proffer my hand, which he eyes warily for a moment before accepting.
"Truce," he agrees.
"Temporarily," I hasten to add, before he thinks he's off the hook.
"Noted." His lips curve into a slow, sensual smile.
The crowd shuffles again and we all rearrange ourselves, the woman next to me now standing so close that her heavy splash of perfume is practically in my mouth. It's so strong that even chili oil and fried wonton can't drown away the scent. Creepy-crawlies tickle my spine. Blech. Some people.
"You don't have to worry about her," says Wolf.
"I don't?"
"Just throw up a picture of us together in your office, drop a few hints your marriage is back on track, and thank her profusely for her pep talk." He smirks. "Easy peasey."
"So cunning," I tease, bumping his arm with my shoulder. "No wonder you're the CEO."
A shadow crosses his face. "For now."
I wish I could bite back my thoughtless words. "You don't have to worry about that," I say, proud when my voice doesn't waver.
He raises one elegantly sloped eyebrow in question when he hears me parrot back the same thing he just said to me. Playing along, he wraps a friendly arm around my shoulders. "Oh, I don't, do I?" he murmurs, his voice throaty and if I didn't know any better, playful.
With resolve, I smile at him. "I did sign that contract, you know."
His arm around me stiffens and the smile drops. "The contract," he says in a dull voice. "Right."
The lightness of the moment has vanished. His demeanor has changed, grown cold. I realize I've said the wrong thing. Biting my lip, I reach up to grab his hand. The moment my skin touches his, he jolts and stares down at me, lips parted in surprise.
I let my hand linger over his skin, let his heat burn into mine. "Wolf," I whisper, "I didn't mean it like that." I coax my fingers between his, but his hand is still limp to my touch. Frowning, I forcibly take hold of his hand, grappling for a second before he relinquishes control and lets his fingers ease into mine with trepidation. I can feel the exact moment he relaxes by the way his fingers curl into mine like little coiled shrimp.
"I would help you even without the contract," I vow, but the truth is, I don't know if I would. I walk a fine line with Wolf, and even after five years of sporadic meetings and icy silences and heated barbs, I still don't know him at all. I still don't know how to feel about him in any way, shape, or form.
I wish I was selfless enough to help him just because I'm a good person, but I value my own self-preservation a lot more now than I did then. I'm not the same girl who can be suckered into pretending to be a boy's girlfriend just to help him out of a sticky ex-girlfriend situation.
I tamp down the prickly, uncomfortable feeling in my stomach that pops up at inconvenient, morally-suspect times. It makes me feel almost mercenary to compartmentalize everything I once felt for him with the indecision of what I currently feel for him, all weighed against a flimsy piece of paper promising away one year of my life in exchange for money. The thought revolts me, now. Money.
I shouldn't have been tempted by it, but I wanted something in return for my one year of indentured wife-itude. It made sense at the time to latch onto the idea of taking his money and getting him out of my system for good, like a buy one get one free.
He smiles in a pacifying, serene way. "No," he says quietly. "You wouldn't."
"Yes, I would," I argue, even though in my head I was just having a silent argument over the honesty of my claim five seconds ago. But now that he's trying to call me on it, I plan to be belligerent and contrary.
I make no move to shake his arm off and he makes no move to withdraw his appendage from my shoulder.
"You're more like me than you think," he says, like it's something he realized a long time ago and just decided to slip into the conversation now as my wake-up call.
"How'dya figure?" My voice is sharp and frosty.
"You just are."
"Like hell!"
"van der Waals," calls out the owner of The Golden Dragon. "Your order is ready."
For a moment, we're both locked in place. Then, Wolf lets his arm fall away. His smile is sad when he looks at me, brushing past my shoulder to pay for our food. But not before having the last word, leaving me thunderstruck and gaping.
"You don't want to be like me." His expression is cloudy, almost contemplative, but tinged with another emotion I can't identify. He takes a deep breath, then releases the zinger.
"But that doesn't mean you're not."
Author's Note: Happy Friday, you awesome possums! I hope this greatly anticipated chapter was chock full of all the Wolflotte moments you were craving! Do you think he's right? IS Charlotte's personality similar to Wolf's? Is this a case of opposites attracting or opposites repelling? Or, alternatively, similars attracting? Wolf sure thinks he has her pegged, at any rate. Remember, there was that time in the Netherlands that Xander commented on this, too? I know it feels like ages ago, but flip back and you'll see the scene I'm talking about :)
I had a lot of fun writing this chapter and it's my deepest desire that you all found it as enjoyable as I did! If you did, let me know. If you didn't, well, let me know, anyway - and tell me what you think I could do better! :)
Happy reading and have a great weekend! If you're feeling bored, snuggle up and give this story a re-read and let me know how you think the flow of flashback worked from present-past-present. That would be incredibly helpful.
Toodles! xx