There's just a texture underneath his messages—something compressed, something he's holding between the lines—and I've gotten good at reading the spaces.
I leave him to his game.
Work through lunch. Answer another call—a new client, a man who wants me to "rebrand his personality." I tell him that's a therapist, not a fixer. He asks if I know any who do house calls. I give him a number and charge a referral fee.
Then, a minute later:
WEST:You know, I just realized something. If I’d been in the Olympics this year… if I'd been on the roster, I'd have missed the whole thing.
I stare at my screen.
The cursor blinks. I read the messages twice. Three times.
He just—did he mean—that felt like a thought that got out before he could catch it. A door left open that he didn't intend to walk through.
If I'd been on the roster I'd have missed the whole thing.The island. The week. The wedding.
Us.
I type three different responses. Delete all of them. My fingers hover.
ME:Good thing you had time to relax then.
WEST:Yeah.
Neither of us says anything else about it.
I close the message thread.
Go back to my spreadsheet. Stare at the numbers until they blur.
Then I fileI would have missed the whole thinginto a drawer in my brain.
Carefully.
Because now, I have room for it.
Aday later.
I’m finalizing catering details for a client’s retirement when I notice a missed voicemail from West.
I tap it while typing. Half-present.
He’s saying something about scheduling a meeting with his coach advisor.
It doesn’t matter what he says.
His voice drops into a lower register—slightly distracted, that offhand rumble of a man thinking about something else while he talks—and something low in my body forms a very strong opinion.
I stop typing.
What was that.
I press my thighs together under my desk. It doesn't help.
I go back four seconds.
Play it again.
