I make the appropriate noises without really listening. My brain is still back in that lab. Still on Logan. His apology. The way he looked at me when I walked in—like I was a ghost. A miracle. Something that hurt to look at.
I don’t know what to do with any of it.
“Here we are.” Layla stops in front of a narrow door wedged between a laundromat and a store that sells vacuum repair parts. A neon sign flickers: O’MALLEY’S. Half the letters are burned out. So, really, it just blinks ‘MALL’.
“This is it?”
“Isn’t it perfect?”
It’s aggressively unglamorous—the kind of bar where you pay cash and don’t ask what’s in the well drinks.
I let out a breath. “OK. Yeah. This works.”
Serena calls out to us as we’re about to push through the door. “Over here, dorks!” She’s half running, half walking up the sidewalk with her arms out like she expects to tackle us. Which, to my surprise, she does. She hugs both me and Layla at once—all elbows and perfume and actual, visible relief.
“You both look like a murder just happened,” she says, steering us inside. “Was the FDA stuff that bad?”
Layla gives me a quick look, but I’m not sure if I’m supposed to answer or if we’re keeping secrets. “Worse,” I say anyway. “The entire team is a tire fire, but with more regulations.”
Serena grins. “My favorite kind of crisis.”
Inside, O’Malley’s is exactly as advertised. There’s a linoleum floor, a jukebox with an ‘out of order’ sign and a crappy Bluetooth speaker sitting on top of it playing Bon Jovi. There’s an entire wall of TVs showing a game that no one is watching. I spot two men playing darts in paint-splattered jeans, an old guy at the bar arguing about the perfect beer-to-foam ratio, and I can hear someone playing billiards off to the side.
Serena guides us to the closest booth and insists on getting the first round. She returns with three glasses of over-poured whiskey and sets them on the sticky table. “Figured we'd skip the pretense and just go straight for the hard stuff.”
As she slides back into the booth, I take one and drink half of it before anyone can comment.
“So.” Serena leans forward. “Scale of one to ten, how bad was today?”
“It was fine.”
Layla and Serena exchange a look.
“Itwas,” I insist. “We had a meeting. Discussed our approach. He had some ideas about the signal interference issue that were actually...” I trail off.
“Actually what?” Layla prompts.
“Good. They were good ideas.” I stare into my whiskey. “He’s still brilliant. That hasn’t changed.”
“What about outside the work stuff?” Serena asks carefully. “Did you two... talk?”
“He tried to apologize.”
The silence that follows is heavy.
“Tried?” Layla repeats.
“In the lab. After the meeting.” I take another sip, letting the burn settle in my chest. “Said he was sorry. That he didn’t mean to hurt me. That he didn’t know how to—” I stop, because I don’t actually know how that sentence was supposed to end. “I don’t know. I didn’t let him finish.”
“Why not?”
Because I was afraid of what came next. Because if he finished that sentence—if he actually explained—I might understand. And if I understood, I might forgive him. And if I forgave him, I’d be right back where I started. Wanting someone who doesn’t want me back. Waiting for the nextrejection. Building my whole sense of worth around whether a man decides I’m enough.
I push the thoughts back down and go with, “Because I don’t want his apology.” The lie comes out smooth. Practiced. “I don’t want him to explain. I don’t want to understand. I just want to do my job and get through the next eighty-two days without?—”
Without hoping. Without letting myself believe there’s an explanation that makes this OK. Without finding out that I was right all along—that I’m just not the kind of woman men want to kiss.
I take another sip.
