"I'm not going to judge where you live," I say, raising an eyebrow at her. "If that's what you're worried about."
Her gaze doesn't waver, but she smiles. "Sure you won't. Your apartment overlooks Central Park, right? I remember you saying that on the phone."
"It does," I admit. "But what's Central Park to a brick wall? Just a few trees. Nothing I haven't seen before."
That earns me a chuckle. "As opposed to brick."
"You know what they say, once you've seen one tree, you've seen them all," I say, talking to keep her distracted as the elevator ascends at a snail's pace. "But bricks… there are endless nuances. Colors. Textures. Sizes."
She breaks her staring contest with the elevator panel to give me an amused look. "Is this some sort of fetish, Tristan?"
My smile is crooked. "Oh, if you want to talk about-"
The elevator groans and comes to a sudden stop. The lights flicker once, twice, before they give up. We're swallowed by pitch darkness.
Freddie doesn't scream, but the gasp coming from her direction is filled with such terror that I move toward her on instinct.
"It's okay," I say. "We're okay."
"This can't be happening." Her voice shakes with the effort to stay in control. My hand closes around her arm, her coat soft beneath my fingers.
"Breathe, Freddie. Breathe. We'll be okay."
She takes deep, shuddering breaths. I settle my hands on her shoulders and press inwards, as if I can anchor her by my touch alone.
"Are you breathing?"
"Yes," she whispers. "Tristan, I think I'm about to have a panic attack. At any second, a cord could snap, and we would plummet to-"
"No," I say firmly. "That's not going to happen. Do you know what will?"
"What?" she breathes.
"We're going to sit down, right here, and we're going to call maintenance as well as that doorman of yours. They'll have this fixed in no time." I reach for the steel wall, and then gently pull us both down to the floor. She follows in a fluid motion.
Then I do something I know I shouldn't, but it's just the two of us here, and judging by the shallowness of her breath, she's fracturing. So I pull her into my arms.
"Breathe, Freddie. Deeply in, deeply out."
She trembles but does what I say, following along to my own exaggerated breaths. I tighten an arm around her shoulders and her hair tickles my nose.
"We'll be okay," I say. "The elevator looks new. I'm sure an automatic alert has already been issued."
The panel in the elevator isn't lit up, though. Pressing the alarm button would likely do zilch. Perhaps a power outage? Freddie's hands tighten on the fastening of my coat, curling around the edges.
"Do you know the number to your doorman?"
She shakes her head, but after a few more breaths, she speaks. "I think it's in my phone."
"I'll call him."
"Okay. Just give me a minute."
I hold her, smoothing my hands over her arms, before she's composed enough to reach into her pocket and hand me her phone. There's a notification waiting for her on her phone. A message.
Luke: Had a great time today, Fred. I hope you'll let me show you around next weekend too.
I click the annoying message away-now's not the time, Tristan-although the name imprints itself in my mind. Scrolling through her contacts, I find the one titled Doorman Tom and hit call. Put him on speakerphone.
"This is Tom," a voice says. "What can I help you with?"
"This is Tristan Conway and Frederica Bilson. We entered the building just a few minutes ago, and we're now in the elevator. It stopped when we were roughly at the thirteenth floor. The lights are all out and the panel is unlit."
"Shit," Tom says, and despite the unprofessionalism, I can only agree with him. "I'll call for a technician right away. Don't worry, either of you. This has happened before."
Then it should have been fixed before, I think. "We'll wait. Please keep us updated of any developments."
"Of course, sir. We should have you out in no time." A brief pause. "Is everything all right with Ms. Bilson?"
Raising her head from my shoulder, Freddie clears her throat. "I'm fine, Tom."
"Good. All right, then. Sit tight," he says and hangs up.
A breathless, scared laughter bubbles out of Freddie. I can't see her face, but I don't need to to understand her reaction. "Sit tight," she wheezes.
I slide my arm down and circle her waist, evident even through the thickness of her coat. "You heard the man. Come here."
She sidles closer. "You don't think we'll die?"
"I don't," I say. "Not even a little bit. Let's breathe again, sweetheart."
We breathe in tandem for ten long, slow breaths, my hand moving over her lower back the entire time in languid strokes.
"Okay," she whispers. "I'm better."
"Good," I murmur back.
"I'm focusing on you and not on the hundred-feet drop beneath us."
My hand brushes the bottom of her hair, the thick strands tickling my skin. "Focus on me, then."
She clears her throat. "Can you talk for a bit?"
"Okay," I say, pitching my voice to soothe. "You said earlier that you wanted to get to know me. There are all kinds of things I could tell you, you know."
Her silence tells me to keep going, so I do, my hand rising to smooth over her hair. It's like silk beneath my palm. "I was born and raised in this neighborhood. Just a few blocks over, actually. There's no other place I'd want to live, not permanently. New York is my home."
"Despite the pigeons and tourists," she whispers.