My hands tighten into fists at my sides, holding on to my resolve. How did “What happens on work trips stays on work trips” eclipse not sleeping with a coworker in my brain?
“Yeah. Yeah, maybe we could. And we could keep it casual. Business casual, even. Business casual with benefits,” I ramble, looking hopefully at him. But I can feel myself physically backing away before the railing meets my back.
“I don't think those words make sense in the way you're thinking they do,” he says, and his brow pinches in confusion. It’s not the response he wanted, but he hides his disappointment well. “I understand if you don't want to...”
My heart aches terribly for him. I really like him. I'd love to be able to simply dive into what he's offering, but I can't claim the credit he gives me. How horrible, that Vlad would offer something so vulnerable as a corner of his heart to me, and I can't receive it?
“No, I do, I just...” the words dry up before I can say them. It’s already hard enough to refuse his offer, but to reveal how utterly unworthy of it I am? It’s all I have left of us. The thought makes my throat close up and tears creep out onto my eyelashes, threatening to show themselves.
“I'm sorry, I can't do this right now.”
“Are you ok? Did something happen?”
I shake my head, my teeth welding together. If I tell him, he’s just going to want to fix it, when there’s nothing to fix. It can’t go back to the way I thought it was, and I was living in a fantasy if I thought people just kind of ignored me instead of actively gossiping about me behind my back.
“Gwen, it’s clear you’re upset.”
Somehow, those words pierce me more than anything else—that I can’t muscle through a difficult conversation without my feelings becoming transparent.
“No, I just want to be alone. I shouldn’t have come here tonight. I think I’m just going to go back to the hotel. I’ll get a cab,” I blather, verbally scrambling for something that will let me escape this conversation.
I try to turn away, and I see the way his wings flex, him holding back the urge to curl them around me and hold me there with him. In some small part, I wish he’d just do that. If only there were no more talking, and just holding. But, of course, it can’t be that simple.
“I can see what you’re doing.”
I stop in my tracks, feeling his eyes on me. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“It’s one thing if you don’t want to deal with me, it’s another that you keep hiding yourself away from anyone who could possibly begin to care about you.”
My breath stops in my throat. I’ve never felt so bare in front of him.
He takes my stillness as an opportunity to brush the back of his hand against mine. Not holding me, just barely touching. “I can see the way you keep hiding bits of yourself away so that people won't hurt you, but you deprive yourself of the chance to be appreciated. You have so much to express, and you won’t let anyone see it.”
“Vlad,” I plead, swallowing hard, staring at the ground.
“Gwen,” he says softly, and shifts his grasp so he can hold me in the tenderness of his gaze. “You are so immensely good at what you do.”
“STOP IT.”
The words leave my mouth in a snap, a screech. They’re too hard, too biting. I pull my hand away. I can’t bring myself to meet his eyes again, but I watch the stillness of his tail.
He’s building me up, and I can’t let him do that. I need him to stop raising his expectations for what I’m capable of, because I can’t even reach the bar where it’s currently at.
“I don’t need your help, or your guidance. I don’t need someone to placate me with empty affirmations. You don't knowanythingabout me.”
It comes out venomous.
I can't help it. There are tears rolling down my cheeks as I grit my teeth together and try to hold them back. My hands are clenched fists that I can't pry open, so I wipe the tears away on the back of my wrists.
It’s not until I’m breathing ragged in the silence from how viciously I’d hissed at him, that I realize what I’ve said.
Vlad holds my gaze, but slowly nods. His eyes search my face, but he doesn’t press for more. His wings recede, tucking close behind him.
“I should, um, go. I have some emails to send,” I say, even as my brain stutters to reconcile what I’m doing. I don’t know when, if ever, I’m going to see him again, but somehow that feels as right as it does wrong. I emotionally clock out right there and then.
I don’t remember if I smiled and nodded and told him how nice it was to meet him on this trip, or if I turned on my heel and left the place without another word.
16
