My thumbs tremble, waiting for the three dots of reply to flicker and vanish.
James
Don’t do this.
A new kind of fury rises in me. I want to hurl the phone through the window. Instead, I type:
It’s done. Let’s not make it worse.
There is a long pause. I watch the screen.
Nothing.
Blank, as if he’s finally realized the wisdom in silence. I set the phone screen down so I don’t have to see it anymore.
I’m more tired than I’ve been in weeks, but I can’t settle. My hands won’t stop shaking.
I pace the kitchen, open and close the fridge, and finally settle on a glass of wine just to have something to anchor me. I down it, hoping it will dissuade the anxiety long enough for me to make it to tomorrow.
***
The next morning, my body jerks itself awake before the alarm. I lie there, staring at the ceiling, listening to the low murmur of pipes in the wall and the occasional scrape of Salem’s claws on the floor. The dread in my chest is so heavy it feels physical.
I force myself up, shower, and dress in a suit so drab and professional that even my mother would approve.
By the time I reach the office, the parking lot is already crowded. I spot Nash’s bike wedged into the last sliver of curb.
Nash is already in my office, slouched in one of the client chairs with his ankles crossed under the desk, thumbnail worrying at the lid of his coffee cup. When I enter, he straightens, but doesn’t stand. His eyes are different today, more sober, less amused by the world.
I slide my bag onto the floor and flick on the lamp, which does nothing to warm the morning.
“You look tired,” he says quietly, with something close to concern.
“I am.”
He tries a smile, but the corners of his mouth refuse to comply. “Rough day yesterday?”
“You could say that.”
He leans forward. “Look, if you don’t want to talk about it, that’s cool. I mean, it’s not, but—” He stops, lets out a shallow breath, and starts again. “You should know there are rumors…about you and James.”
“What about me and James?”
“That you’re sleeping together,” he replies.
I don’t move, don’t blink, don’t breathe. Nash watches me, studying me like he’s waiting for me to crack. When I still don’t say anything, his brows furrow and his face hardens. He waits a beat longer before speaking again.
“Tell me it’s not true, Avery.”
My throat is dry, the muscles of my face unmoving. Nash is waiting, eyes boring into me so deeply I want to look anywhere else.
I could lie. I could say the rumors are bullshit. But Nash would know.
I stare at him, at the line of his jaw gritted hard enough to crack his teeth. The silence stretches thin. He breaks it first.
“I didn’t want to believe it,” he says, standing. He places his hands on my desk, leaning in close, and continues, “But we both know you’re not above fucking your coworkers.”
Then he straightens and leaves my office.
