And now, now that I truly see her, I want to tell her to sit down, to let someone pour her coffee, to let someone make the world less sharp for a second. I want to fix it with a wrench and a curse word.
There’s an ache, too. Not the old anger that burned when Stephanie left. This feels different. Softer. Riddled with something like… possibility, if that isn’t too ridiculous. Seeing her try to keep it together makes me want to be better than the versions of myself that took things for granted. It pisses me off and fills me with something that’s not pity. Maybe it’s respect. Maybe it’s something I’ll have to name later when I’ve downed a few shots of whiskey and let the alcohol loosen the walls around my tortured heart.
And it scares me in a way I don’t want to admit. Wanting things is how you get hurt. Naming them is how you get owned by them. So I don’t name anything. I just sit here like an idiot with the sudden urge to be good.
I also know boundaries. I know not to barrel in and play hero in a way that makes her smaller. There’s a fine line between being protective and being patronizing, and I don’t want to cross it. So I’ll do the only thing I can think of that’s both cowardly and careful: I’ll continue to leave the door open and keep my distance, make my presence obvious without smothering. If she wants me, she’ll say it. If she doesn’t, I’ll be respectful. I’m not a saint. I’m not even sure I’m honorable. But I won’t be the asshole who watches and does nothing.
The quiz still sits in front of me. The red pen idle. The paper isjust a square of pulp and ink and some student’s half-assed work. Not important. Not compared to this.
I push the stack aside and lean back in my chair, finally, the gravity of this place now centered on her.
Before I breathe out, I think—always stupidly melodramatic—about how people show up for others. Not with grand speeches, not with dramatic rescues. Sometimes with three stupid words that sound like a threat and sometimes with a quiet hand near a bag or a single text five minutes later that says: You okay?
I tell myself I’ll step out there, be present, just in case. Someone needs to be on her side, even if it’s just as a witness to the fact that the world didn’t let him take her tone, her boundaries, or her dignity without consequence.
Except, she’s not there. Her desk is empty. The cardigan’s gone. The paperclip question mark sits alone. I look at the clock. It’s 5:04 p.m. She must have shut that filing cabinet on her way out.
And now I’m left with the one question I don’t want to answer: if she was just another woman, if she didn’t matter, why the hell do I feel her absence like this?
EIGHT
TORI
Past
Union Lodge No.2 is Moraine’s feeble attempt at a big-shot suit club, but it’s trying too hard. The dimly lit space reeks of cheap cologne and ambition, with its pleather booths, polished brass fixtures, and a bar that pretends to be handcrafted mahogany but is too factory-cut for its own good. Everything about this place feels like a Pinterest board for fragile egos—leather that squeaks when it shouldn’t, a fireplace that hasn’t been lit since the Bush administration, and a row of framed vintage whiskey ads meant to suggest class but scream desperation.
Chase is in his element here, working the room like he owns it, greeting colleagues with loud handshakes and bro hugs. Nobody will call this place what it really is—a poser bar for small-town suits wishing they could step foot into the actual Union Lodge in Denver. Ha. As if.
I linger near Chase, trailing behind like a shadow, gripping the small clutch purse that doesn’t quite match the black dress I put on just because he said he liked it. My heels click softly on the wooden floor, but the sound is swallowed by the dull roar ofconversation and the clink of glasses. The air is thick with the tang of spilled beer and the faint musk of stale cigar smoke, making me feel even more out of place. Despite the effort I put into my hair and makeup, I feel like a prop, an accessory to Chase’s overwhelming need for attention.
Sometimes I wonder why he wasn’t named Chad. He really issucha Chad.
As we approach the bar, the lighting changes—a soft glow from Edison bulbs strung overhead casts long shadows, giving the illusion of sophistication. Chase introduces me to a few of his newer colleagues, their suits slightly ill-fitting and ties just a little too bold for the occasion. One of them, a younger guy named Matt, turns to me with a genuine smile, his blue tie a little crooked.
“So, Tori, what do you do?” he asks, his tone polite and warm, a stark contrast to the superficial energy around us.
I barely part my lips to respond before Chase waves a dismissive hand, cutting me off. “Oh, she just plays with numbers all day,” he says, smirking like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever said. “She’s an accountant. You know, spreadsheets and boring stuff like that. Nothing too exciting.”
It’s not the first time he’s diminished me like this. Hell, it’s not even the first time this week. I keep thinking I’m overreacting—that I’m being too sensitive—but that sinking feeling in my gut? It’s becoming a permanent resident. The kind that moves in with a suitcase and changes the locks.
Heat creeps up my neck, and I feel my shoulders tense. The words hang in the air, mocking me. Chase’s tone, his words, his very presence—all of it presses down on me like the oppressive weight of the too-warm room. Matt’s smile falters, his gaze flicking to me with a mix of sympathy and awkwardness.
I manage a tight smile, brushing the moment off. “I’m an accountant at a small firm,” I say, trying to salvage the conversation. “I handle a lot of different accounts, so it can actually be pretty interesting. Every day’s a littledifferent.”
Matt nods politely. “That sounds great. I bet it keeps you busy.”
“Yeah, it does,” I reply, but my voice feels thin, barely audible over the clamor around us. I glance at Chase, who’s already turned away, his focus locked on someone else. My stomach churns, and I swallow hard, fighting the lump rising in my throat.
“What about you? Are you an associate?”
“Junior associate,” he says, his voice softening as if sensing my discomfort. “I just transferred to the Moraine office from Denver. I prefer a smaller town to the city.”
“I get that,” I reply, trying to ease the tension. “We went to UC Denver but moved back here as soon as we graduated. The city isn’t for everyone.”
The conversation dwindles as I turn to Chase, desperate for a distraction. “Babe,” I call softly, placing a hand on his back. His body jerks, and foam spills over the top of his pilsner like a mini waterfall.
“What the fuck, Tor?” he snaps, spinning to face me with fire in his eyes. “Are you trying to spill this drink all over me?” The room suddenly feels smaller, the noise quieter, and I feel every eye in the vicinity shift toward us.
