The rest of Tuesday is worse. Miles assigns me busy work, formatting documents and organizing files from 2019. I do it without a word, then stay late working on my own campaign concepts. I keep Hawthorne’s advice about boundaries in mind, but the urge to prove my worth is a physical itch I can’t scratch.
I refuse to be wasteful, so I pack the croissants back into the box. On my way to the bus stop, I give them to the regular beggarwho sits outside the station. He thanks me with more genuine warmth than I’ve received in forty-eight hours.
By Wednesday, the pattern is undeniable. When Miles walks by, the designers in my pod suddenly find their screens fascinating. When I ask a question in the shared chat, the responses are slow and carefully neutral. James used to tell me I was too sensitive or that I was imagining things, but I know this feeling. I spent two years thinking I was the problem. I refuse to do that again.
Thursday crawls. I keep my head down and speak only when spoken to. Miles drops a massive stack of files on my desk at four o’clock with a pleasant, empty smile.
“I need these organized by client and date. It should keep you busy for a while.”
The stack is enormous. It’s an intentional attempt to bury me in the past.
“Of course,” I say. “I’m happy to help.”
I work through the files methodically. I don't let myself check the time until my phone buzzes at six o’clock.
Kai, Handkerchief Guy.
My chest flutters like an idiot. He texted. There's a world outside this building, and he's in it.
Kai:Hi Emma, it’s Kai from the museum. I hope your new job is going well. There is a painting class tomorrow evening if you’re interested. Beginners welcome. That would be me, of course! - K
I stare at the screen until it dims. He texted. He waited nearly a week, but he actually reached out.
Me: Hi! The job is... a job. Tomorrow works. I finish at 19:00. Where is the class?
The three dots appear immediately. He was waiting.
Kai: Perfect. The class is at Studio Loft on 5th. It starts at 19:30. I hope you say yes because I already booked us spots. They were going fast.
Us.He booked spots for us. Presumptuous. And exactly what I needed.
Me: Confident of you! But yes, I’ll be there.
Kai: Great. I’ll meet you outside at 19:15. And if you’re hungry after, we could grab a bite?
He wants to have dinner. The tightness I've been carrying all week eases. Someone wants my company.
I find Zoe at the coffee machine five minutes later.
“He texted,” I whisper. “He invited me to a painting class tomorrow.”
“Is he an artist?” Zoe asks.
“He’s in investments. He said he plans to be terrible at it.”
Zoe grins over her cup. “I like him already. Go. Paint something terrible. Eat food that didn't come from a microwave. Talk to a human who isn't trying to sabotage your career.”
“You’re the best,” I say, squeezing her arm.
I finish the archival files by seven o'clock. Miles underestimated my speed or my spite. I am not sure which. I leave them on his desk with a sticky note.Done. Let me know if you need anything else.
Kill them with kindness. Or at least confuse them with competence.
On my way home, I think about Kai’s navy jacket hanging in my closet. It still smells like him. I will bring it tomorrow and return it. The monogrammed handkerchief, however, is folded and tucked into my nightstand drawer like some Victorian keepsake. It’s a small, soft memory I am not ready to give up.
CHAPTER 8
THE BRIDGE COLORS
