Chapter Text
It began in the summer, when the heat was stifling and the brain wasn't thinking straight. It began in the summer, when Andy and Miranda accidentally met at the second fanciest restaurant Andy'd ever been to. She was there waiting for an interviewee--whether he was late or she'd shown up ridiculously early was irrelevant--and Miranda was just wrapping up a lunch of her own. Technically, they met outside the restaurant.
"Thank you." Andy smiled at the host showing her to her table and placing a menu before her. She was seated by the window, in the middle of a row of square tables for two with heavy, white tablecloths and unlit candles in the center. She felt out of place in that Upper East Side establishment in her outfit from two seasons ago, even though she'd put in her best efforts. Trying to ignore the unreasonable feeling that everyone was watching and judging, she busied herself with reading the menu and prematurely mourned the future dent to her wallet. Every once in a while, she raised her head to try and spot her companion over the lunch crowd.
That was why initially she only spotted the flash of white in her peripheral vision. And in the double take of the century, honed in on the one and only Miranda Priestly.
They hadn't seen each other in close to a year, not since an awkward wave gone completely unacknowledged in the middle of the street. Since then, Andy had been too busy trying and failing and trying harder to make a name for herself to think about clothes and Harry Potter manuscripts and Fashion Week, and she couldn't imagine Miranda spent much time thinking about a former assistant, one in millions.
So Andy didn't immediately get up to greet Miranda, who was in the middle of a conversation with someone undoubtedly more significant than Andy; who clearly hadn't noticed and proceeded to stare like an idiot, like Andy; and who probably cared very little about reconnecting with a disappointment such as Andy.
She should apologize, Andy knew, for the way she'd left things. But then Miranda didn't hold much sentiments for apologies, and if she hadn't yet blacklisted her from the industry, perhaps it was all good. At the very least, she should thank her for a weird, passive-aggressive recommendation that had ended up scoring her her less-than-glamorous job. But Miranda didn't care much either for boring gratitude. And while she was debating whether to say hello or not, Miranda was already rising from her chair and snatching the coat draped over the back.
"Oh!" Andy found herself leaping out of her own seat with a sudden urgency that contradicted all of her reasonings and prompted her to chase a fast-paced Miranda out of the restaurant.
"Miranda!" she called when the woman in question was just about to lower herself into a car whose door her obedient driver was holding open. With her usual air of importance, Miranda turned with confused irritation at the disturbance that didn't let up once she'd laid eyes on the culprit.
"Hi, sorry, hi," Andy said awkwardly, coming to a stop before her. She didn't expect a warm or even sardonic smile--perhaps, instead, a murderous look and chastisement for daring to interact with The Dragon Lady--but by the blank expression on Miranda's face, she was perplexed to realize it was quite possible Miranda didn't even recognize her. Just how many assistants had she gone through in the last year? Andy would have hoped that, despite not ending up a shining protégé, she was at least memorable enough to identify.
"Um, it's Andy. Andy Sachs. I was your assistant a while back... you know, the... fat girl with the ugly shoes," she tried jokingly, forcing a smile that was even more awkward.
Miranda still didn't seem as if she could quite place her, which made Andy regret ever leaving the restaurant, and Andy was not nearly important enough to have an assistant whisper her name in Miranda's ear. Still, Miranda gave no indication either way when she uttered an impatient "Yes?"
She was not a fan of small talk, much less in the middle of what was likely a busy schedule, and unless Andy needed something--in fact, even if she did-- actually, it was a miracle Miranda still hadn't turned her back on her.
"Uh, well, I..." She what? Now, faced down by her formidable former boss, she was blanking on what to say, why she'd approached Miranda in the first place. "I just saw you and wanted to say hi. It's been a while, I'd love to catch up--"
"I don't have conversations in the middle of the street," decreed Miranda. "You can call and make an appointment with my assistant." And with that, she was in the car, driving away without so much as a "goodbye."
And so it began.
Having known Miranda for the better part of a year, Andy knew that when she'd said "call and make an appointment with my assistant," she probably hadn't meant "call and make an appointment with my assistant." So then why was Andy sitting at her desk a day later, fiddling with her phone instead of working?
Miranda was a magnet, that much she had gleaned in her tenure at Runway. People were drawn to her, unable to explain to themselves why, because for all the world, one would choose to stay as far as possible from a cold, careless, eviscerating, emotionally manipulative destruction machine. But there was just something about Miranda Priestly--be it her transcending style, her glass-ceiling-shattering brilliance, the unique scent she carried with her everywhere she went, or the overall aura that constantly shone around her--that made people seek her presence and approval. Andy had been one such victim, endlessly trying to appease a woman who'd had nothing but bad things to say to her.
She was a drug, and like an addict, after months sober, one minute back in her presence had rekindled something inside Andy, begging her body and mind to get their fix.
She was dialing a familiar number before she could psych herself out of it.
"Miranda Priestly's office," a snooty voice on the other end of the line recited a greeting so ingrained in Andy she still found herself, from time to time, fighting off the reflex to answer her phone the same way.
She tried to picture the girl on the line with her, sitting at Andy's old desk, using Andy's old computer, tasked with Andy's old errands. She was probably younger than Andy, fresh out of college and actually grateful to have been given this opportunity. Actually interested in fashion. Actually known how to apply mascara without stabbing herself in the eye from the first try.
"Hi," Andy said. "This is Andy Sachs. I was wondering if I could speak to Miranda?" she ventured, already knowing that of course she wouldn't be put through.
"Miranda is in a meeting," came the detached response from the beautiful assistant--size two, blonde hair slicked back, legs up to her neck--while Andy mouthed along the same rehearsed line. "Can I take a message?"
"Um, well, just let her know that Andy Sachs called." She grimaced. "Like we agreed yesterday." She fought off the urge to bang her head against her desk. "Just... that's all." Oh, my god.
She hung up before the assistant had a chance to respond. Two seconds later, she realized she'd never given said assistant her number. By then, she had run out of what little courage she'd possessed to make the initial call, and so she had nothing left to do but chuckle at her own ridiculousness as she went back to work, to her current life.
At 8 P.M., she was eating a lonely dinner of Kraft mac and cheese when her phone rang. She still had the number saved in her contact list, and it wasn't the office landline.
"Hello?" she answered cautiously.
"What did you want?" Miranda asked without preamble, but despite the bluntness, there wasn't hostility to the question.
"What?" Andy frowned.
"On the street," she clarified, starting to sound like her normal, agitated self, "what did you want?"
Again, Andy found herself lost for words. Miranda calling her, from her personal cell, at 8 in the evening, because of one interaction out of dozens in her day? She knew she only had so long to find her equilibrium before Miranda hung up in her face, but she still got up from the kitchen table and moved onto the living room sofa before replying, "I guess... just to say hello?" She had to do better than that; she had Miranda Priestly on the phone. "It was nice seeing you after so long," she said truthfully, only realizing after the words were out of her mouth that it was the truth.
There was silence after that. Perhaps before? Maybe Miranda had hung up in the time it took Andy to gather herself. But finally, her voice came back on the line, short and businesslike like Andy was accustumed. "I can do lunch on Thursday."
Lunch? How had they gotten there? What would they even talk about? What would they eat? And how would Andy pay? She really had just wanted to be polite and say hello, maybe update Miranda on her professional progress. But then she had mentioned catching up, and Miranda had mentioned making an appointment, and you never told Miranda "no." "Oh, well, lunch, sure, yeah, that-- yeah, I can do lunch," she stammered. "Where--"
"My assistant will call you with the details," Miranda informed her before ending the call, leaving Andy more off-kilter than she'd been at the beginning of it.
And just like that, she was back in Miranda's life, and her addiction was about to take on a life of its own.
They met at a meat restaurant in Midtown Manhattan, a walking distance from Elias-Clarke, but Miranda still took the car. How she could eat an entire steak and keep her figure was a mystery. How she could eat an entire steak, then preach starvation, was outrageous.
Andy realized, as they sat down, that seeing Miranda nearly daily for almost a year had taken away the wow factor, made her, if nobody else, no longer notice, or at the very least appreciate the remarkable uniqueness of the woman; after another year of deprivation, the second time in a week was exciting all over again.
"This is weird. Is it weird?" She cringed.
"Stop making it weird," Miranda ordered.
"Sorry."
Unfolding her napkin over her lap, she nonchalantly inquired, "What do you do now?"
"I--" Andy began before stopping herself, eyebrows squeezing together. "You do remember me, right?" Because it'd be really embarrassing if Miranda had actually intended to dine with somebody else, say someone who hadn't quit her job without a two weeks' notice.
But Miranda, breezy as ever, replied, "I forget very little."
"Oh. Well, good. Well, then, yeah," Andy felt more confident to keep going, "I'm still at The New York Mirror. It was slow-going at first, but they're letting me write more serious stuff now, and I've made some friends. I actually, I wanted to thank you. My boss told me about your recommendation--I think that's what made him give me a chance. And you, you really didn't have to do that-- I mean, I know how we left things was... and you had every right to be angry-- I guess I should apologize, too--"
"You're rambling," Miranda cut her off, lips pursed.
"I am, aren't I?" Andy cringed again.
Rearranging the cutlery before her in better symmetry, Miranda focused her gaze on the task as she said, "I didn't ask for an apology. I've had enough assistants since you left to get the job done. You were hardly significant enough to stop my world from spinning."
Andy's cringe intensified. "I... I didn't try to imply..."
"What serious stuff are you writing?" she interrupted again.
Snickering and grateful for the change in subject, Andy said, "Actually, I'm trying to venture into politics at the moment. Senator Anderson is running for President and I wanna cover it--you know, one of New York's own and all. But the problem is no one wants to speak to a nobody from a tiny newspaper, much less give her exclusivity."
"Real world isn't as easy as you thought, is it?" Miranda said with a wicked gleam in her eye.
"I guess not... I actually had a meeting planned with his campaign manager--that's what I was doing at the restaurant the other day--but he... he stood me up." Andy had been all too excited to score the opportunity for an interview, only to get a crushing text from an assistant to an assistant fifteen minutes into her wait.
"That's too bad," murmured Miranda, not looking the least bit fazed. Why had she agreed to the meeting--in fact, why had she initiated the meeting--if she didn't care about what Andy had to say?
"How's work going?" Andy ventured about halfway through their meal. It was a risky feat inquiring about the place she'd quit, but if she kept the awkward silence going, she knew Miranda would simply get up and leave. This wasn't a car or elevator ride; Miranda wasn't looking for someone to quietly watch her eat.
Her response, however, was extremely lacking. "As usual."
She could be quite the conversationalist--or rather monologist--when she wanted, so why the hell were they having this lunch if she had no interest in communication? Surely she had better ways to spend her time.
"Is the new assistant better than me?" Andy tried harder.
"She runs errands--how much talent do you need for that?" To meet Miranda's standards? Plenty.
"Is Emily still there?"
"Of course not." Miranda frowned. Andy supposed that for a woman who changed assistants like socks, the question was genuinely puzzling.
This was fun. In a nail-pulling kind of way. Andy understood that work was probably not a topic Miranda was anxious to dwell on with a former employee, but then what else could she chat about with a person she had virtually nothing in common with? The weather?
And yet, perplexingly, while Miranda was taking out her credit card and ignoring Andy's half-hearted offer to go Dutch, she found herself suggesting, "We should do this again some time."
And, astoundingly, Miranda replied, "My assistant will contact you."
They parted ways with no hugs, no air kisses, barely a "goodbye," but the very next Thursday, Andy found herself in a French restaurant on 6th Avenue, unable to fathom why.
This time, when she stood up to greet an expressionless Miranda heading toward her, fashionably late, the latter leaned in, taking Andy by surprise as she didn't so much touch their cheeks together, but the tantalizing scent of her perfume filled Andy's senses, made her momentarily dizzy.
"It's good to see you again." Andy smiled as they sat down across from each other. She didn't say that she couldn't afford to take prolonged lunch breaks in the middle of the work day in fancy restaurants just to cater to Miranda's whims. She didn't voice her bafflement at Miranda's agreement to a second social meeting with a lowly employee who'd either highly disappointed her or meant nothing to her. And she hated herself for not saying her piece when Miranda ignored her statement altogether.
"Have you ever had the rosé here?" she asked softly.
Andy answered pointedly, "I've never been here." Did Miranda honestly think that just because she could dine weekly at five-star restaurants, everyone could? Even New York Mirror reporters?
Miranda continued as if she hadn't heard a word, "It's exceptional," and merely turned her head fractionally in her subtle version of getting a waiter's attention. Astonishingly, it worked.
This meal was interspersed with some small talk, but mostly Andy caught Miranda uncomfortably watching her. It was as if she was studying her, like in her days at Runway, each outfit examined for the approval of a fashion guru who couldn't forget and forgive the plaid and polyester crimes of days past. Unlike the Runway days, her looks now weren't punctuated with subtle nods or changes of subject, which made Andy miss the awkward silence of the previous week. At least the wine was exceptional.
Andy tried every topic she could think of: the food, the news, Miranda's personal life. Sometimes Miranda played along; sometimes she ran her eyes down Andy's neck and collarbones. Andy noticed things as well: the absence of a wedding ring on Miranda's finger, the tension in Miranda's shoulders and between her eyebrows, the way her Balenciaga blouse draped exquisitely over her body.
When their bill arrived, Andy didn't offer to split it, just watched Miranda extract her card and then something else. She frowned at the piece of paper placed before her on the table, at the digits scrawled in neat, beautiful handwriting.
"I have your number," Andy stated in confusion. "Obviously."
"It's the senator's number," Miranda clarified in the kind of gentle patience needed to teach a six-year-old math, as if Andy was supposed to guess.
"What?" she asked with a deeper frown, incomprehension warring with amazement.
"Campaign managers and secretaries aren't your way in," Miranda explained with the most engagement she'd shown in two lunches. "You want to get something? You go straight to the top."
"What makes you think he'll talk to me?" Andy chuckled disbelievingly, drawing an incredulous look from her companion.
"Make him," Miranda said as though there was not a more obvious course of action, as though meek, little, nobody Andy, cub reporter for The New York Mirror, was someone who could just make people do things. "If working for me didn't give you the tools to network and chase after what you want, then maybe it was all for nothing."
Before an indignant Andy could rebuke her claim, she casually added, "Use my name if you want."
This time, as they said their goodbyes--actually, verbally said them--Andy didn't suggest a third lunch; she knew there'd be one.
As she left the restaurant, the senator's phone number tucked securely into her satchel, a strange thought occurred to her: I should start dating again.
She called the number that same day, barely enduring the subway ride back to work in her enthusiastic impatience, and wasn't surprised to be sent to voicemail. But she left a professionally- and respectfully-sounding message, and dropped Miranda's name for good measure. Over the course of the following days, she did so twice more.
By the time Thursday rolled around, she was practically buzzing with excited energy as she faced Miranda across the table at Marea. "He called me back," she blurted before they'd even taken their respective seats.
Miranda didn't ask who; she simply stared at Andy, wordlessly urging her to go on. "Yesterday," Andy went on. "He said that he's currently in D.C. and won't be back till the 3rd, but he'd love to speak to me once he's back in the city."
Instead of squealing and jumping up and down, Miranda brusquely advised, "Don't wait around for him to forget; keep going after him."
"I will." Andy nodded eagerly, open to take any professional guidance she had to offer. "Thank you."
This time, as Andy inelegantly inhaled her oysters and Miranda delicately slurped hers, a dam seemed to have finally broken, allowing conversation to flow through it with ease. And this time, Andy welcomed and met Miranda's penetrating stares head-on. They were scorching her through the fabric of her clothes wherever they landed, and she embraced the sensation, feeling not judged but... appreciated. She couldn't imagine Miranda enjoyed the view of a $50 mall dress or cared very deeply about Andy's career endeavors, so it had to be something else.
Like the thrilling shock Andy got whenever Miranda's eyes briefly settled on her breasts and immediately moved away. Or the fascination Miranda provided her with with her choice of blouse that day. Or the way her body reacted when their conversation stirred in an unexpected direction.
"And what do you do every day after work?" Miranda nonchalantly inquired after Andy's complaint about her crazy hours--far less crazy, admittedly, than her Runway hours.
"Honestly, just collapse on the couch and wolf down whatever I can find in the fridge," she admitted bashfully to a woman who went home every day to an Upper East Side townhouse and ate a gourmet meal her cook had made under a chandelier.
"No boyfriend?" Miranda checked even more nonchalantly, but her eyebrow was raised and her gaze was intent and Andy felt a sudden shiver run through her.
"Uh, no," she said, fiddling with her shredded napkin. Their food was long gone, dirty dishes cleared off the table, but neither seemed in a hurry to leave. "He moved to Boston a while back. We tried to make the long distance work, but in the end..." she trailed off with a half-hearted shrug.
"So no one new?" Miranda asked. From anyone else under any other circumstances, Andy would have chalked the question up to a friend encouragingly invested in her love life. Glancing down, Miranda was stroking the tip of her thumb up and down where her ring used to be, and when Andy's eyes lifted back up to hers, she was taken aback by the blazing look she found there. Miranda must have been, too--by her reaction, the quickly averted gaze, the stare she must not have intended to pin Andy down with--because she irritably turned in her seat, searching the entire restaurant. "Where is that waiter?"
"No." Andy drew her gaze back to her. "No one new."
"That's a shame," she murmured.
"Not really. I'm not looking for anything serious at the moment. Trying to focus on work instead. Making time for friends when I can."
"Is that right?" Miranda said monotonously, looking disinterested but for the eyes still searching Andy like an airport scanner.
"What about you?"
Her eyes stopped on Andy's, briefly widening. "What about me?"
"Anyone new?" Andy asked cheekily. She could now, because Miranda was no longer her boss, and she'd asked first.
She looked ready to dismiss the question, maybe even berate Andy for the audacity to ask after all, visibly picking and tossing a dozen different retorts before settling on an underwhelming "No. No one since..." She rubbed her ring finger again.
Andy's eyes grew. "That long?" Miranda's eyes grew larger. Andy's lips snapped into a thin line. "Sorry. I didn't mean... that was really..." Miranda gulped. The waiter showed up.
Andy couldn't sleep. She usually dropped after a long day at the office or out, chasing leads, but despite her early morning and the many busy hours that had followed, her brain just wouldn't shut down.
Lethargic and desperate, she let her hand wander down her body and, almost without thought, into her pajama pants. She hadn't in a while, she had the apartment all to herself, and why the hell not? At the very least, it could put her to sleep.
Closing her eyes, she built herself up slowly, rubbing through her underwear while willing her mind to conjure up nice images: lazy Sunday mornings of languid lovemaking; Nate pinning her against the shower tiles. Every once in a while, she threw in Christian Thompson's soft curls between her thighs.
Sufficiently ready, she ventured beneath the elastic waistband, pressing and breathing deeply. Soon, each exhale ended on a moan or a sigh. Hands on her breasts. Back arched on all fours. That time on the kitchen table--what if they'd tried a different position-- oh, that, yes... that would have been nice. More would have been nice, too. Rougher. Faster. Slower. Miranda's silk blouse clinging to her breasts.
Andy's eyes snapped open, vision lost in the darkness of the room. But she didn't stop. She squeezed them shut and rubbed harder, thinking of Miranda's lips wrapping around her fork. Miranda's soft voice. The sway of her hips as she walked away to her car. Oh, it was working. It was definitely working. Andy's back arched, her legs opening wider. Miranda's fingers. Miranda's fingers inside her, her tongue on her. Those lips around her clit, sucking, licking, devouring--
A hand shot up to her pillow, fist clutching the edge while her head tossed back and a ragged, quivering gasp intensified the longer she managed to prolong the blissfully pleasurable coiling of muscles before they all released, unable to take any more. Sated and spent, she slumped back against the mattress, sweating, panting, staring at no point in particular while heavy breaths left her dry lips.
It happened four more times throughout the week.
It was a strange thing to sit across from someone and pretend to have a normal meal after sexualizing them behind their back on a near-daily basis.
Or it would have been, if Miranda hadn't looked as if she'd spent the week doing the exact same thing.
Her cheeks and neck were as flushed as Andy suspected hers were, and whenever their gazes met across the table, they were averted just as quickly. As far as conversation went, this meeting had little to none. It wasn't that Andy didn't have anecdotes from work to share or that Miranda didn't want to talk about the upcoming Runway issue; there was simply no room for it between the body perusals and clenching ankles and subtle squirming. It would have made things awkward if Andy hadn't been busy thinking what it would feel like to lay Miranda across their table and have her way with her, and if Miranda hadn't looked eager to find out as well.
When they finally spoke, they did so right over each other, in voices as raspy as if they hadn't had a drop of water all day.
"When do you have t--"
"How're your kids?"
"Sorry," Andy said at the same time Miranda said, "They're fine," at the same time Andy added, "What did you ask?"
"Nothing," Miranda bit, then cleared her throat. "When do you need to go back to work?"
Technically, Andy wasn't supposed to be out eating pesto, but she said, "There's no rush." Then asked, "Why?"
Miranda's eyes jumped up to meet hers, looking as caught off guard as if she hadn't even been aware they were having a conversation. "Why what?"
"Wh--" Andy's forehead creased, matching her companion's befuddlement. "Why did you ask? Did you-- do you wanna do something after this or..."
"What would I want to do after this?" Miranda's own face mirrored Andy's, her confusion lending harshness to her words.
"I don't know," Andy answered feebly and shrank in her seat, focusing on twisting her spaghetti around her fork.
With Miranda's cryptic evasiveness and Andy's raging hormones, there was only so much left to do to save their lunch. So Andy decided to throw caution to the wind and test a theory. Straightening in her seat, she breathed in, effectively inflating her chest. She had on a V-neck shirt, and as she inconspicuously leaned across the table for the salt shaker, her breasts pushed against her arm, and each other. And right on cue, Miranda's eyes fell onto the view and refused to leave.
"If your meal is bland," she said in a strained voice, lips pinched so hard it created wrinkles in the skin around them, "you can simply send it back."
"No," Andy breathed out, sitting back with a smirk. It widened when she matched Miranda's stare, lightly seasoning her pasta. "I like to spice things up."
"Do you now." Miranda's lips pinched harder.
Slowly rolling her fork, she brought it up to gradually parting lips and bit down, moaning with her head thrown back, "God... so good."
Miranda's breathing had heaved. Her eyes had darkened. The tension in her shoulders had grown. In fact, her whole body looked like a tightly wound spring about to combust. A year ago, Andy would have had nowhere to pull her courage--or chutzpah--from; now, she put down her fork and asked, "What are we doing?"
"I thought we were having lunch," Miranda muttered bitterly.
"Why?"
"Excuse me?" she demanded, irate.
"Why are we having these lunches?" Andy pressed. "We hardly have anything to talk about. I know I'm not the kind of person you socialize with. And this is taking time out of both our days neither of us can afford to lose."
"Well." Miranda put down her fork, calm exterior betrayed by the murderous look in her eye. "If you're going to be ungrateful--"
"So how about we put the cards on the table?"
"What cards?" she asked through her teeth, glaring at Andy with all she had.
"Oh, you know," Andy said lightly, bravely, "that the reason we're here is the same reason you can't stop looking down my shirt."
She had never seen such a combination of scandalous rage and mortification on Miranda's--or anybody's--face. The redness that had persistently tinted her skin all throughout lunch had spread to her chest and ears as well, the pursed lips signaling a worse doom than the 2005 benefit gown James Holt had had to offer. "You are out of your mind," Miranda hissed, chest rising and sinking in anger.
"I'm not an idiot, Miranda," Andy continued (almost) fearlessly. "I may have been confused at first. But I see the way you look at me."
"You're delusional," Miranda shot back.
"So you don't wanna try?" Andy asked, shutting her right up. In an instant, it was as if her face had reset like an Etch A Sketch, shock clearing it of any previous emotion as her brain worked on processing the suggestion. Meanwhile, her body proceeded to react differently: legs crossing tighter, fingers stiffening against the table's edge.
Faintly, she began, "I don't know what you're--"
"Because I do," Andy said steadily, silencing her once again. Miranda swallowed. "I mean, it doesn't have to mean anything. Obviously, nobody needs to know. Just once--we can try and see what it's like."
Later, she would surely beat herself up, wondering just where this bravado had come from, when even for her job she couldn't be so upfront and demanding. Perhaps she could blame it on not getting any for several months. For now, she was drawing strength from the palpable effect she had on Miranda. It was hot to feel desired, especially by someone like Miranda Priestly, who could have anybody she wanted. Up until a week ago, Andy would have balked at the mere suggestion that she was feeling the same attraction; up until two minutes ago, she would have denied being anything other than straight as a ruler. She still wouldn't go so far as to identify as anything but, but she was definitely curious. Curious enough, it turned out, to make such a crude proposal.
But alas, finally she had gone too far. In horror, she watched Miranda toss her napkin on the table and push back her chair. "We are done here," she announced, getting to her feet.
Alarmed, Andy protested, "Wait, Miranda, I didn't mean--"
"Lower your voice," scolded Miranda in a harsh whisper, eyes burning holes into Andy's face.
Quietly, Andy tried again, "I wasn't trying to--"
"What? Proposition me? Who do you think you're talking to?"
"Well, you're the one who's been stripping me with her eyes!" Andy heard herself exclaim before she had a chance to censor herself. She wasn't loud enough to be heard by the restaurant's other patrons, but it did the trick in making sure she would never hear from Miranda again. If she was lucky, she'd still have a job by the end of the day.
"Don't try to contact me again," Miranda said, an evident threatening note to her tone, before snatching her bag. This time, she was the one storming out of Andy's life.
Or so Andy thought.
By Saturday night, she hadn't shaken off Thursday's events, but she also hadn't been handed a pink slip so at least she felt confident enough that she would not become homeless any time soon.
She'd spent Friday night in a cheap bar with her friend Finley, using beer and a couple of shots to chase away the memories of her self-inflicted humiliation. But the quiet solitude of Saturday cleared the way for brooding. She brooded while she made herself dinner; brooded while she ate it; brooded while washing the dishes; brooded in front of the television. And just to shake things up, she also mourned the loss of what could have been. Fantasies were a lot more exciting with the sliver of chance of them coming true; with Miranda gone, trying to imagine what she would feel or taste or sound like was just plain frustrating.
Andy's last thought before she heard the knock at the door was that going so long without sex was really dangerous for one's psyche.
Her first thought after looking through the peephole was that this time, good, old blacklisting was simply not enough. Although an axe and a tarp were not visible through the tiny hole, she'd clearly managed to drive Miranda to the option of homicide. There was simply no other explanation to her showing up at an address she wasn't even supposed to know after midnight.
"Hey," Andy said shakily upon opening the door. She was suddenly very aware of what she looked like: tank top over a sports bra, worn-out leggings, hair up in an uneven ponytail, no makeup. "What are you doing here?"
"I've been asking myself the same question," replied Miranda, sounding like she was talking through her teeth while refusing to meet Andy's eyes.
"How did you know where I live?"
Rolling her eyes in much more characteristic irritation, she complained, "Do you usually make guests beg to be let in?"
"Oh, sorry," Andy caught herself, blushing as she stepped aside. Never mind that Miranda never actually begged for anything. With her usual air of importance, she strode into the apartment and proceeded to look around her in disgust, as if she'd been forced into the shabby conditions of Lower Manhattan instead of imposing her presence on Andy. That got Andy's hackles right up.
"You left me with the bill," she accused once the door had closed behind them.
Unfazed, Miranda set her bag on the kitchen table. "The polite thing to do would be to offer me water. I thought Midwesterners were supposed to have manners."
She'd obviously never met Andy's grandmother. Andy, however, had them, which was why she didn't argue back, but she did derive a small pleasure from filling a glass with tap water. Predictably, Miranda never touched the offering.
"So you're not in a relationship," Miranda said, apropos of nothing, while examining the living room: the old sofa, the chipped paint on the wall, the dusty television.
Andy realized they were cutting straight to the chase, and realized she wasn't surprised at the revealed purpose of Miranda's visit after all. "No," she answered, licking suddenly dry lips.
"And you're not looking for anything serious." Andy didn't feel the need to offer a response; she didn't think Miranda was waiting for one. Miranda turned to her, look sharp and intent. "Neither am I."
"So..." Andy gingerly prompted, heart hammering in her chest. In the back of her mind, she was so, so very glad she'd shaved her legs.
All of a sudden, Miranda's eyes narrowed. "Have you ever--" she stopped herself, lips pursing, and inhaled through her nose. "Been with a woman?"
Andy bit her lip, and quickly ran her eyes over Miranda's form, for the first time considering how very different it would be from what she knew, and how badly she wanted to discover, and how plausible and imminent the opportunity to do so was. Her heart beat faster. "No," she admitted. "Have you?"
"Of course not," Miranda said at once, more scandalized than she'd been at the implication of still employing Emily Charlton.
Andy had a feeling she should perhaps be offended by her blunt reaction, but instead she said, "But you're curious." It wasn't necessarily a question. "That was the point of the lunches, right?"
Miranda ignored her as she slowly folded back the cuffs of her blouse sleeves merely, it seemed, to have something to focus on. "I need to know, of course," she said casually, staring at her sleeve before redirecting a penetrating gaze at Andy, "about past partners."
Andy understood, past the initial confusion, that she wasn't asking for a list of names or a number or, god forbid, references. "It's... it's been a while," she confessed sheepishly. "So um... nothing to worry about." As far as Miranda was concerened, they'd already awkwardly established there was nothing to worry about on her front.
"Does this mean that we... I mean..." For all the courage she'd presented during their meeting earlier that week, it turned out she had none left at her disposal now, when faced with the very real possibility, terrifying and exhilirating all at once, of what they were about to do.
And so she was grateful when Miranda took charge and crossed the kitchen in quick, sure strides until she was a mere breathing distance from Andy's personal space. "This will be a one-time thing," she decreed imperiously, sounding as if she was proposing a business deal. If neither of them was gay and a relationship wasn't on the table, perhaps, technically, it was. "We do it once, we get it over with, get it out of our systems, and move on. And, needless to say, no one will ever know about it."
"Sounds..." Andy swallowed. "Sounds good to me. Should we shake on it?"
Miranda rolled her eyes at the suggestion, but the very next moment extended her hand, lifting a haughty eyebrow when Andy took it in hers. It was as good, she supposed, as signing a contract. In fact, it helped slow Andy's heartbeat down.
"So... how should we..."
Businesslike and practical as ever, Miranda proceeded to unbutton her blouse and let it fall to the floor in the span of maybe five seconds. Before Andy could marvel at her lacy bra or pristine skin, she was already heading into the bedroom as if she owned the apartment, apathetically ordering over her shoulder, "Take your clothes off."