5.
A crying Miranda Priestly wasn't exactly something Andy was prepared for. She held the older woman in a tight embrace, not really knowing what she was supposed to do. Stroking the editor's back she whispered softly into her ear.
"Whatever it is, it can't be that bad. It's going to be ok."
Her words did not have the desired effect, because Miranda started to cry even more and pulled Andy closer into an almost painful embrace. Hot tears flowed down Andy's neck but soon enough the icy wind that sneaked in through the still open door froze them into pearls and she started to shiver.
"All right. We have to move, it's cold out here."
She untangled herself from Miranda and stood, pulling the editor up with her. After pushing the door closed she wrapped an arm around Miranda and walked her to the back of the store, up the stairs to where her small apartment was situated. Once upstairs she led the crying woman into the bedroom and made her sit on the bed. Removing Miranda's wet, cold clothes was not easy, because the editor made no effort to help, but at least she did not stop her either. Miranda obediently tolerated being undressed, down to her underwear, and wrapped in a soft, warm blanket. During the process her tears went dry and she just stared at Andy with an unreadable expression. Then she started to talk, and talk some more. She talked for hours. Years and years of pain, disappointments, and fears made their way out of Miranda's heart and soul. Andy just sat there holding the broken woman's hand and listened. She listened to the story of a hopeful young woman who had followed her dreams and became the Queen of Fashion. The long and hard journey full of tears and pain. Betrayals and downfalls. The cruel world of fashion. She listened to the story of several unsuccessful marriages, how Miranda was not capable of maintaining any of her personal relationships. How she did not trust anyone, because she'd learned not to. How lonely she really was behind all the glitter and how badly she missed someone she could love and cherish. She listened to a story of a woman who wanted nothing more than love and to be loved. It seemed that Miranda was not exactly talking to Andy. She was not expecting answers or confirmations. After hours of talking, finally there was nothing more to say and Miranda fell into an exhausted sleep.
Andy quietly watched her sleeping for several minutes. Her heart was bursting with emotions, and she felt the first familiar sign of a lurking panic attack. She needed to occupy herself before it hit, so she tiptoed out of the room and went straight to the kitchen. Baking. Baking always helped and she had an order to fulfill anyway. Hours later she was glazing a batch of cinnamon rolls when she heard some movement. Looking up she saw Miranda standing at the door, freshly showered, and wearing her bathrobe.
"Oh you are up. It's still early though, I hope I didn't wake you."
She poured some coffee into a mug and handed it to Miranda who took it without a word.
"Searing hot. Just the way you like it."
Smiling warmly at the older woman, Andy continued to glaze the cinnamon rolls and went on with her babbling.
"I charged your phone. I put it on the nightstand, I hope you found it. Although I won't open the store today I still had to complete this order. I usually bake something for Christmas for the folks at the retirement home down the street. This year they wanted cinnamon rolls. So I made cinnamon rolls. They're freshly out of the oven. I know it's not typically something you would eat for breakfast, but would you like one?"
No response, just silence, so Andy finally looked up from her task and froze. The editor was staring at her with an expression that Andy read as somewhat hateful?
"What's wrong?" she asked, carefully placing the pipe on the table. The sticky, sweet glaze oozed out of the bag but she couldn't care less.
"How much do you want?" asked Miranda unemotionally, not bothering to taste the coffee, no matter how divine it smelled. Yes, the Ice Queen was definitely back.
Andy tilted her head uncertainly.
"Um...I'm running a café here yes but you don't have to pay for the coffee or…" she motioned toward the rolls, "…for the pastries."
"Don't mock me. You know exactly what I'm talking about. How. Much. Do. You. Want."
Getting only a confused head shake instead of answers Miranda took a deep breath and lowered her voice.
"How much do you want for keeping all that I told you last night to yourself? How much, or what do you want?"
It came out almost as a whisper but the coldness in her voice made Andy shiver involuntarily.
"I'm not sure how to answer to that."
"Oh please. Just name your price. Everybody has one. What's yours?"
Andy shook her head again disbelievingly.
"I don't want anything from you, Miranda. And don't worry I'm not going to sell you out."
The brunette didn't really know how to handle the situation, so she did what had helped her before to release the stress. She grabbed the piping bag and turned back to her pasties. Unfortunately, what had worked nicely before did not this time, she just couldn't ignore the other woman's sneer. Frustrated she tossed the bag aside, straightened, and looked pointedly at Miranda. The editor avoided eye contact, instead she looked fixedly into her mug.
"Look. I understand how you feel. I'm sorry that you can't seem to trust anyone. I'm sorry that you feel the need to push me away just because I showed you compassion and understanding. I'm sorry that I can't help you more…I'm sorry because apparently you need help and need someone to rely on."
Andy became more and more agitated, and paced the cozy kitchen.
"I'm sorry that your daughters are away and that your ex-husband is an asshole. You had bad experiences. I get that. Trust issues. Anxiety. Noted. I'm sorry that you can't see that I'm not the enemy here. I'm…" Andy inhaled deeply and let out an exaggerated sigh. "I'm just sorry, ok?"
"The level of pity has just increased to unknown heights. Is there anything concerning me you are not sorry about?" asked Miranda bitterly still not looking at the younger woman.
"Actually, yes. I'm not sorry for kissing you." answered Andy coyly. "And," she continued with a sheepish grin, "I would do it again if I had an opportunity."
Miranda's head snapped up and she narrowed her eyes at the brunette skeptically. No way, had she heard her right. After last night, the breakdown, the tears, the younger woman should know perfectly well how much of a failure Miranda really was. Adding to that she was standing in her kitchen without any makeup, feeling and possibly looking tired and old. No. This young vibrant woman must be out of her mind wanting to kiss her. Or - even worst – she was just making fun of her. She slammed the mug on the counter and hissed angrily.
"You can't be serious."
Andy shrugged and took a guarded step toward Miranda.
"I can assure you, Miranda, I'm quite serious. I just can't get that kiss out of my mind."
She stepped even closer, so close that their bodies almost touched. Slowly she lifted her hand to the editor's face, pausing for a second to give the other woman time to move if she wanted. Miranda didn't, so Andy gently caressed her face with featherlike fingertips, drawing never-ending lines on the soft skin. She deliberately explored every inch, not missing the faint wrinkles around the eyes, still red and puffy after hours of crying.
Miranda just stood there mesmerized. She didn't really understand what was happening, why she was letting this young woman, a stranger, touch her, and why it felt so natural, so blissful.
Andy leaned in and rested her forehead against Miranda's.
"I know what you are thinking. But you are wrong." she whispered "Makeup or not, you are beautiful and sexy as hell. And I do want to kiss you again."
Miranda shivered but still didn't make any effort to move away. Where did her anger go? Why did everything that this young, incredible creature did or say, sound so right, so real?
"This is insane." she breathed out "I don't even know your name."
Before Andy could have answered, a loud, unmistakably male voice hollered from outside.
"Honey. I'm home."