Instead, I pull out my phone and text Dominic.
Me:
You free for a drink?
The response comes in under thirty seconds.
Dominic:
Always. Bad day?
I consider how to answer that. The reunion I’ve been stressing about for months. The apology that landed like a stone in water. The way she looked at me—through me—like I was already gone.
Me:
Something like that.
Dominic:
Whiskey or beer?
Me:
Whiskey.
Dominic:
That bad, huh? Give me 20 minutes. I’ll meet you at O’Malley’s.
I pocket my phone and start shutting down my workstation. The simulation parameters still need to be sent. But I’ll do it from home. Or from the bar…
The lab feels colder than usual when I leave. The servers keep humming, indifferent to the fact that the only person who ever made this work feel meaningful told me there’s nothing complicated between us.
Nothing complicated. Just two colleagues. Just work.
Not even friends anymore.
This is what happens when you let someone in. They get close enough to see you clearly, and then they leave. I should have known. I did know. I just let myself forget.
I take the elevator down to the lobby, trying not to calculate the exact number of interactions we’ll have over the next eighty-two days. Trying not to think about morning standups and lab meetings and the specific frequency of awareness that spikes every time she enters a room.
Eighty-two days is a long time to work closely with someone when it feels like they’re still on another continent emotionally. Shit.
I fucked this up so bad.
If only this brain of mine was smart enough to build a time machine. Now,thatwould be the key to solving my problems.
Outside, the Chicago air is sharp and cold. I start walking toward O’Malley’s, hands in my pockets, head down.
My phone buzzes.
Dominic:
For what it’s worth, I’m proud of you for texting me instead of the robot.
I almost smile. Almost.
Me:
