I watch his mouth, the way his jaw sets slightly like he’s bracing for resistance he hasn’t earned yet.
“I was wondering if you’d consider coming with me.”
Consider. The word feels wrong.
Not because of the invitation—but because of the distance wrapped around it. He sounds like he’s offering me an appointment,not extending something personal. That wasn't an actual invitation either. Not one from the man from last night.
I feel it: the absence of warmth. The careful neutrality. The version of him that knows how to ask without risking anything.
My answer comes faster than it should.
“I can’t,” I say.
He blinks. Just once.
“Oh,” he replies. “Okay.”
No disappointment.
No curiosity.
Just acceptance.
It irritates me more than it should.
“I already have plans,” I add, because silence feels unfinished and deep down I want him to ask.
“That’s fine,” he says. “I understand.”
And I know—know without question—that he hasn’t asked what those plans are because he doesn’t want to. He doesn't care if I have a date. He doesn't care about any of it.
The realization cools something in me.
My cousin Penelope's voice flickers through my mind—strained, apologetic. The call coming on the drive to work. The quiet explanation that the chemo had hit harder this round, that she couldn’t manage the evening, that her partner didn’t want to go alone.
I said yes without hesitation.
I don't say it now.
I don't explain that I’ll already be there.
That I’ll already be in a dress.
That I would have liked to go with him—if he’d asked like he meant it.
He nods once, like a meeting agenda has been resolved.
“Well,” he says, glancing briefly at his watch, “thank you for the time.”
Time.
Not seeing me.
Not considering it.
“Of course, Mr. Pierce,” I reply evenly.
He hesitates—just a fraction of a second too long—then turns back toward the elevator.
