Back, back, back.
The contract unsigned.
The resignation letter un-shredded.
The pastries I brought to the test kitchen reappear in the box.
And finally, that first night: I’m walking backward through his office in the dark, hands outstretched. I find his chest—bare, warm, solid—and instead of stumbling forward into disaster, I’m pulling away. Retreating. Leaving him before anything starts.
Back to long before I loved him.
“Ma’am?” the nurse prompts impatiently. “Your partner’s sexual history?”
“I don’t know,” I admit. “I’m not sure I ever did.”
“You don’t know.” Her judgment is unmistakable now. I’m definitely not making it up. “So you had unprotected sex with someone whose sexual history you’re unfamiliar with, no idea if he gave you any STIs, and now, you’re here because you might be pregnant. Do I got all that right?”
I consider that maybe I should sharpen the tip of Excalibur so I have something ready for judgmental bitches like this one next time we cross paths. “That about sums it up, yeah. You’ve got a way with words, you know.”
“Well.” Papers shuffle. “The doctor will be in shortly. We’ll need a piss sample.”
She presses something into my hand—a plastic cup, lukewarm and slightly sticky like it’s been sitting out in a sun-drenched dumpster or something.
“Bathroom’s two doors down on the left,” she says. “Think you can manage it?”
She doesn’t stick around to find out.
6
BASTIAN
sachet d'épices /sa'SHa da'pes/: noun
1: aromatics bundled in cheesecloth, kept close to infuse flavor throughout cooking.
2: the list you keep folded over your heart because it’s the only thing with a purpose you still have left.
Harold Fitzgerald’s bow tie is crooked.
I notice this as he leans across the conference table, one meaty hand extended for a congratulatory shake. “Remarkable, Bastian. Simply remarkable.” His grip is damp. I resist the urge to wipe my palm on my slacks when he finally releases me. “The Michelin announcement alone has generated more buzz than we could have bought with ten times the marketing budget.”
Around the table, the other investors murmur agreement. Charts and projections litter the polished surface, all those neat little graphs climbing upward like staircases to heaven.
Project Olympus is a smash fucking hit.
I should feel something about that. Pride, maybe. Satisfaction. Relief that the thing I nearly destroyed myself building is actually working.
But I don’t feel a fucking thing.
“The numbers speak for themselves,” I say instead.
“Er, right.” He withdraws uncomfortably. “Well, we’ll let you get back to it. Dinner next week? The club?”
“I’m busy,” I say, already standing. The universal signal forget the fuck out of my office.
They take the hint. Handshakes all around—more damp palms, more congratulations I don’t give a flying fuck about. I walk them to the elevator with a face of stone.
The doors slide open with a pleasant chime that grates against my nerves. We file in, Harold still talking about market penetration and brand recognition and other terms that used to mean something to me. The elevator descends in smooth, climate-controlled silence.
