"Yes," I admit. "You are."
I grab my briefcase from the table. I can’t stay here. The air in the room presses in on me, tight and unforgiving, and my resolve starts to give. I want to drop the briefcase and beg her to forgive me. I want to tell her she’s the only thing that has ever felt steady.
But I'm a coward.
"I'll be back tonight," I say, moving toward the door. "Late. Don't wait up."
"Brooks."
Her voice stops me with my hand on the doorknob.
"Was it just a release for you?" she asks. Her voice is steady, but I can hear the tremor underneath. "Was it just... biology? Or was that a lie too?"
I grip the brass knob until my hand aches. I close my eyes.
If I say it wasn't a lie, we start something real. And real things end. Real things break.
I turn my head slightly, but I don't look at her.
"We're adults, Ivy," I say, my voice devoid of emotion. "Let's not make it more than it was."
I open the door and walk out.
I march down the gravel path, past the blooming roses, toward the carriage house. My father keeps a fleet of vintage roadsters he rarely touches.
I grab the keys to the Aston Martin from the wall rack, start the engine, and drive through the iron gates without looking back.
I turn up the radio to drown out the silence.
I am safe. I am focused. I am in control.
So why does it feel like I just left my life behind in that cottage?
The office isempty on a Sunday.
It is silent, sterile, and cold. Exactly what I wanted.
I sit at my desk for six hours. I review spreadsheets. I answer emails that don't need answering. I stare at the skyline.
I am miserable.
Every time I close my eyes, I see her face. I see the way she looked at me this morning, soft, open, hopeful. And then I see the way she looked when I called it "biology."
Shattered.
At 4:30 PM, my phone buzzes.
Mom
Ivy is lovely at tea. She suggested a vintage lace theme for the bridal shower. You chose well Brooks. She is very resilient.
Resilient.
The word stabs me. My mother uses that word for stocks that bounce back after a crash. She uses it for people who can take a beating and keep standing.
I beat her down this morning. I reduced what we shared to a physical impulse and walked out. And she is currently sitting with my mother, discussing vintage lace and drinking Earl Grey, playing the part perfectly.
Because she's a professional. Because she signed a contract. Because she is stronger than I am.
