I have water and painkillers. Are you decent? No, I'm ruined. Owen cracked the door open an inch. Evelyn was sitting on the closed toilet lid, her head in her hands.
The emerald dress was stained, the delicate silk ruined. She looked small. The commanding aura that terrified board members was completely gone. "My dress," she whispered, staring at the floor. "It's ruined.
I'm covered in God. " I disgust myself. Owen didn't offer pity. He couldn't afford it. It happens. You drank too much on an empty stomach under high stress.
Biology always wins. She looked up at him through the crack in the door. Her makeup was smeared down her cheeks. You're the logistics guy. Owen, he reminded her.
I'm going to slide this water in. Drink it. He set the glass on the tile floor and pushed it forward. I can't wear this, she said, pulling at the stained silk of her dress with revulsion. I can't sleep in this.
It's freezing and it's wet. Owen stood up. He walked into his bedroom, a space barely large enough for a mattress and a dresser, and opened his bottom drawer. He pulled out an old faded flannel shirt. It was gray, thick, and worn soft from years of washing.
He walked back to the bathroom. Take the dress off. Put this on. He held the shirt through the crack in the door. Evelyn stared at the flannel fabric for a long time.
She didn't argue. She didn't demand a silk robe. She just reached out a trembling hand, her manicured nails catching on the frayed cuff, and took the shirt. Owen pulled the door shut. Throw the dress in the tub.
I'll rinse it tomorrow. I'm putting a blanket on the couch for you. He walked away, refusing to linger. He went to the hall closet, grabbed a thin fleece blanket and a spare pillow, and arranged them on the sofa. He pushed the plastic dinosaur onto the floor.
A few minutes later, the bathroom door clicked open. Evelyn walked out. The heavy flannel shirt swallowed her completely, falling halfway down her thighs. The sleeves hung past her fingertips. Without the armor of her dress, her heels, and her perfect hair, she looked like a tired, lost ghost.
She walked slowly to the couch, looking at the faded cushions, the crayon marks on the coffee table, the dim overhead light. She looked at Owen, who was standing by the kitchenet in his wrinkled undershirt. "Why did you bring me here? " she asked, her voice thick with exhaustion. "Because the concierge at your building thought you were a liability and locked us out," Owen said simply. "And I didn't want to leave you on the curb," Evelyn frowned, trying to process the concept of someone helping her without leverage.