“Yes,” Naomi says immediately. Then softens. “Maybe. I just…what if he doesn’t want to hear from me?”
“Then you’ll know. And you can stop torturing yourself.”
Naomi sighs and slumps further into the chair, her stomach churning with equal parts dread and longing. Her fingers itch toward her phone, but she doesn’t move yet.
Naomi tries to focus on the draft glowing on her screen, but her traitorous eyes keep flicking to the phone flipped face-down beside her keyboard, like it’s mocking her.
She’s picked it up, typed out a message, groaned, and put it back down at least a hundred times since her talk with Mila.
One hundred and counting.
She’s composed every kind of text imaginable to him.
Funny:
If I apologize for being a flaming idiot, do I get a do-over or a restraining order?
Stupid:
What’s your favorite kind of vegan sandwich? Asking for a friend who definitely doesn’t miss you.
Horny:
Tell your lucky stick I said hi. And that I miss it.
Self-Aware:
Just checking if you’ve recovered from the trauma of kissing me.
Honest:
I didn’t mean it.
Even more honest:
I can’t stop thinking about you.
Delete. Delete. Delete. Every single one.
For someone who writes catchy shit for a living, she is catastrophically bad at apology texts.
She can’t hit send. Every time she comes close, her thumb freezes and all the panic floods back in.
He doesn’t want to hear from you. You told him not to catch feelings. He listened.
The office is mostly empty now. Her heels are stuffed under her desk, her cardigan is draped over the back of her chair, and there’s a mug of lukewarm tea next to her monitor.
She’s updating the rollout doc for the Whalers’ late-season playoff push—tweaking subject lines, optimizing calls to action, trying not to think about Tall—when she hears footsteps heading toward her cubicle.
She glances up, expecting Mila. Or one of the admin team on their way out.
It’s Richard.
Naomi nearly knocks over her tea. Richard does not visit lowly cubicles. Richard summons.
He’s dressed like he’s already halfway out the door—long charcoal wool coat buttoned over his suit, leather gloves tucked beneath one arm, phone in hand, brows drawn into their usual position of disapproval.
Peering over the top of her divider, he fixes her with a look that could curdle milk.
